


Home: A Place to Make Your Fate

by fouryearslater (CheshireCatLife)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Canon Divergence - Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Fix-It, I promise, M/M, Multi, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Polyamory, Suicide Attempt, Thanos doesn't exist, but it's not too sad, he's ugly and purple anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-10-05 12:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17324702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslater
Summary: After Asgard is blown to pieces, Thor decides to set up his new home on Earth, his brother standing by his side. But it can't be as easy as they say it is. It will take a lot of work, especially on Loki's part. But he's trying, he really is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoop! This is like the eighth thing I've posted in two days but I'm on a publishing spree. I'm sorry but this is un-beta'd so please excuse any errors. I'd like to proof-read this at some point but it's getting very long. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated as it makes me feel more secure about the story and that it makes sense, especially as I've not yet checked it.
> 
> Comments and kudos are also greatly appreciated and I'm always happy to answer any questions you have :)

_PART 1: Home_

_’I’m trying to find home,_

_A place where I can go_

_To take this off my shoulders.’_

*

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to go back to Earth?” Loki sighs, hands clasping in front of him (a front, Thor knows, to hide his anxiety whilst still exuding an air of confidence).

“Yes, of course,” Thor replies nonchalantly, “people on Earth love me, I’m very popular.” Although he’s joking, he says it with a straight enough face that his brother almost, _almost_ , believes him: it’s impressive, really, what Thor has managed to mould into this last century.

Loki takes in a sharp breaths and adds, “let me rephrase that. Do you really think it’s a good idea to bring _me_ back to Earth?”

“Probably not, to be honest,” Thor says as she swings back and forth casually, arms crossed, teasing his brother with a partial truth. “I wouldn’t worry, brother, I feel like everything’s going to work out fine.” They smile and look out the window. Earth, Loki thinks, is not the worst place they could go.

(He doesn’t like to think that only a few years ago would he have said that there was nothing worse).

* 

The ship lands softly on the vast grassland of Norway. Somehow, incredibly, they’d landed in the right place. The trip through space, although tiring, had been successful as any Asgardian ventures usually are and Earth was to be their new home. The new Asgard, built in the place where it had all started in Midgard: the stories, the tales, the legends, now nothing more than a piece of grassland where Odin has once wiped out half a race.

Thor and Loki sit on a sofa, somewhere on the edge of the ship, one of Thor’s arms wrapped around Loki’s shoulders (he’d promised a hug, had he not?), scanning across the blank plane. “It’s rather dull, is it not?” Loki sighs, looking out. But, Thor’s attention is all on Loki, as if he were to disappear any second now (usually it would not be far off the truth). “It is. For now. We will build on it, though, and we will make it our home.”

“And you will rule it?” Loki replies snarkily, though with the same defeated tone that he always has when the succession to the throne is mentioned. Thor just smiles and looks down at his little brother with fondness before whispering, “you know, I did a little research on Midgard before about succession. There was a civilisation that used to be ruled by two people, in order to be just and fair. I think it seemed quite fitting.” He says no more, there is nothing left to say.

Loki smiles. Truly, _truly_ , smiles.

*

SHIELD, as usual, is there to meet them. Thor leaves first; of the two newly appointed leaders, he is the most trustworthy (not to mention by a lot) and goes straight to Agent Coulson. “Son of Coul! It is good to see you again, I missed your company,” Thor booms with his usual bravado and honesty.

“Now is not the time for niceties, Thor. What are you doing bringing an Asgardian ship onto Earth?”

Thor’s face falls and he takes a deep breath before speaking. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that Asgard is gone. Ragnarok has broken it into pieces; it is not just inhabitable, it is gone.” Thor looks up, blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears but the honesty that Loki fails to feign, even after centuries of practice (it is something that can only truly come from the heart). “My father told me, just before he died, that Asgard is not a place but the people that live in it. I have heard that the tales of our realm originated on Midgard from here. It is empty land, I wish to populate it.”

Coulson looks pitying but steels himself to say, “I’m sorry for what has happened but Thor, you can’t just rebuild Asgard here. The Norwegian government own this land; you will have to negotiate a treaty, if they even bother to have a hearing with you. I know you’re a hero, Thor, but you’re not from Earth, they might not be easy to convince that you’re a worthy king.”

Thor nods, face serious, and stares Coulson in the eye when he says, “I will make a deal with Norway, if that is what it takes, no matter how hard it is. Or the second king of Asgard will, he is far better at dealing with these matters than I.”

Coulson frowns for a mere moment before asking, “second king?”

Thor smiles fondly. “The battle for the throne has gone on too long and has caused far more chaos than order. For Asgard to be safely ruled and to prosper as it once has, I have decided that co-leadership will only be the best for our cause.”

“And who is this second king?” Coulson asks suspiciously, although Thor suspects that he already knows.

“My brother, of course. Loki is the only other person I see fit for leadership.”

“Thor,” Coulson hisses under his breath, holding his head as high as he possibly can in order to impose on the man nearly half a foot above his own height. “Loki tried to take over this planet, tried to kill me in the process and killed hundreds of civilians, not only is he unwelcome here but he certainly isn’t going to be allowed to rule anything on this planet.”

The gravitas on Thor’s face drops into a scowl. Slowly, he bows down to Coulson’s height until he is in the perfect position to fall too far into Coulson’s space. “You underestimate me, agent, and you underestimate him. We are staying here; that much is certain. I have lost enough, I will not lose my brother to jealousy because of some petty human ignorance,” he spits.

Suddenly, with the power of a thousand suns, he smiles. “Now,” he announces, “I would like to see my friends. I do not doubt that at least some of my shield mates are here.”

It doesn’t take more than a few agents to whisper in a few ears before a small crowd emerges from within the already gathered agents; Steve steps forward first, an unfamiliar man by his side, trudging carefully through the thick grass and towards Thor. He smiles gently and gives Thor a faint hug before returning to the side of his companion. “Steven, it is nice to see you again. Who is it you’ve brought with you?”

Steve gulps, eyes his friend warily and speaks mutedly. “Bucky. Someone from my time.” Steve can’t really bring himself to say friend, they’re on such thin ground nowadays.

“That is wonderful!” Thor shouts, pleased to see that Steve is no longer alone (Thor is more observant that people give him credit for) despite the wounded look on Steve’s face.

The next two, the only others to come, follow dutifully. Natasha and another who is also unfamiliar but seems in a much better state than Steve’s closest friend (Thor also knows very much who Bucky is, he’s heard enough uttering of that name. A king must know his friends well if he is to trust them). “Natasha, I am glad to see you too. And who is your companion?” This time, the ‘friend’ steps forward themselves. “Sam Wilson,” he introduces, holding out a hand. Thor takes it, accustomed now to the oddities of Midgardian gestures. “I’m the newest member of the team. Only part time but glad to help.”

“Well I’m glad I could meet you, son of Will,” Thor says honestly, seeing the other man's powerful aura - no doubt as powerful as he is in warfare - and feeling pride for his shield mates for picking yet another great choice of teammate. “And I think it’s more than me you should meet. You can come out now!” He calls, looking back to see three people stride - well, one of them is certainly cowering and it’s not the one that should be scared - towards the group.

“Loki, Bruce and Valkyrie,” Thor introduces, moving from left to right, waving a hand at each of them. Loki stands tall, in all his armour bar his helmet and sends the Avengers a smile worthy of murder but with a gentleness to it that would have been impossible to procure during the battle of New York (Thanos had stripped him of everything he was behind his facade. He became what he pretended to be; Loki still does not yet understand why he hates that so much for it is what he tries to be). Valkyrie smiles a crooked smirk and holds up an empty hand in faux toast and nods her hello, pleasantly ignoring them and stumbling towards a small gathering of trees, most likely to take a piss - she’s never been all that ladylike. Bruce steps out from the trio and folds into himself, losing himself within the myriad of tall grass, cowering. “Hi, Nat,” he breathes, looking up at her. She nods. Sam, now by Steve’s side, leans in and whispers “well this is awkward”. Steve ignores him and steps forward, smiling. “It’s nice to see you, Bruce.”

“You too, Cap, where are the others?” Steve’s face falls, a mumble travels through the group like a cacophony of rumours being whispered amongst a gaggle of gossipers.

“A lot has happened while you’ve been away. The...the Avengers broke up. Split in half, really. I’m officially a fugitive now.” Steve laughs mockingly at himself and shakes himself out of it with a shake of the head. “We’re helping the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D. on just this and then we’re back into hiding.” Steve’s self-deprecating smile is enough to break the hearts of anyone who sets eyes on it but he recovers quickly enough, masking it with the brutally stoic facade he usually sports.

“The Avengers broke up? Like a band? Like the Beatles?” Bruce gapes, stumbling forward until he’s in front of Steve, looking up at the super soldier.

Steve nods solemnly. Thor stands there frowning before asking, softly, like how he always used to speak to his mother when she coddled him. “What happened? When I left…”

Steve turns to Bucky and the brutal man’s face falls even further, his eyes darting from left to right like he is looking for exits, for weapons, for anything to reduce the attention on him. “Tony and I fought over something called the Accords: something that was going to stop us from being able to help people. Tony saw it another way and then, from there, it all went downhill,” Steve sighs, his eyes shuttering shut for just a moment before he breaks into a smile - like someone breaks glass - and speaks. “Well, I think we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. What’s in the past can stay there until he decides to change it.” No one needs to be told who ‘he’ is.

“Us?” Thor questions instead. Steve’s smile grows, honesty creeping into its edges. “For as long as we can stay, of course. I can’t help diplomatically, of course, but I definitely have the strength to help build, though I’m not exactly sure how you do it in Asgard.”

“Captain, I don’t think-“ Coulson tries to interrupt but Thor is already speaking. “Hardly different from here on Midgard, I promise.”

“Um,” Sam interrupts, pointing slowly at Loki. “Is no one going to mention that that’s the guy who blew up New York?”

Steve looks over, his gaze mirrored by both Natasha and Bucky, at Loki, analysing him from top to toe, eyebrows furrowed. He gives Loki a questioning glance and says, “you look different.”

The man nods approvingly. “Much has changed, Captain, including myself.”

“Still looking to take over the world?”

“That was never _my_ intention. But maybe I’m looking for just a small section of this place you call Norway.”

Steve nods seriously. “Okay, Loki. But you know if anything happens that we _will_ be here to stop you.”

“I would never dream of anything else,” Loki replies with a broken smirk - like the hammer had already hit the glass of his own facade. Steve nods again and turns to his own group.

“You want to stay?” Natasha confirms with no judgement.

Steve nods and looks to Sam. “I follow you, man, you know that.”

Bucky stares blankly. He nods.

“Then, where do you want to start?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negotiations begin and Loki makes a few friends, if they can even be called that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first few chapters are all going up at once but I'd love to hear your opinions as the story goes forward!

A lot of procedures have to happen before anything can take place. Months of it. Coulson helps but without the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D. behind him and, technically, not even being a legitimate organisation, the goings are slow. The Asgardian’s camp in what is an oddly perfect rendition of a viking village (because tents to them are for some reasons are mud huts and fully formed houses, which the disbanded Avengers still fail to understand). Although some remain on the ship that hovers on the outskirts, barely metres from the cliffs and sea.

People are doing as they need, scattered across the new land, finding jobs to do and people to help. But there’s one person that’s apart from the rest. Loki, staring out at the sea, realises that for once, he doesn’t care about procedure and time and any of the rest of it. Breathing in a the smell of salt and sea and anything else that the rolling wind procures, he smiles and takes a deep breath.

They made it.

Loki has finally done it. Without a scheme, without a plan; he gave up and for that, he’s won. He’s been gifted a kingdom, or half of it, at least, and he will rule beside a man who finally deserves to be king. For all he’s gone through, Loki knows he finally deserves it, just as much as Loki himself (maybe even more so now, though he will never admit it aloud).

The chaos of what’s behind him is beyond him. Whilst Thor is in charge of diplomacy (if only because no one on this planet will listen to Loki himself), Loki is in charge of construction and planning. The landscape inspires him and he finds him sitting outside often, sometimes sitting, legs swaying over the edge like the fall will not kill him (not many falls do). Sometimes he stands, hands in pockets, and just watches the tides.

It has been a long time since he’s had the ability to just stop: no plans, no schemes.

Heimdall, Korg and Miek stay behind with Loki to help with his efforts, alongside the Captain and two of his friends. Thor (as king), Valkyrie (representing the Asgardians who have no ties to Earth), Natasha (a trained diplomat herself) and Bruce (if only because of the other person going) have gone to the Norwegian government to devise a strategy which will give them land whilst also benefiting the Norwegians.

Loki, for once, is even more glad that he’s not there. Building holds no complex strategy, especially since he’s not really building at all, only planning. There is a certain art to it, one that he’s familiar with, but the long term doesn’t matter quite yet. Yes, he must think about development but Thor has allowed him the honor to use his artistic side (one that Thor lacks) to build something as grand, yet ever more beautiful, than what used to be called Asgard. No gold, no grand gestures, just beauty in its simplest form. Loki is not used to simplicity yet he finds himself enjoying it more than he ever thought. (And, in the end, it won’t even matter because this race called humanity will thing it’s complex all the same).

“Loki, we need you over here!” The Captain shouts, hand cupped around his mouth; Loki turns, frowning, placing his drawing implements in a small bag at his side and rushing over the small commotion in the East side of the camp, where he is planning to put Valhalla (it looks over the long beach and at midnight, Loki has found out, the moon hits only the small portion of the New Asgard, and for that, he will name it after their eternal realm.

Loki peers into the tent where the Captain, Steve, is somewhere between leaving and staying, his eyes flickering panickedly between whoever is inside and Loki. “He’s been like this for hours and,” he takes a deep breath, warring with himself, “everyone else has said that you can help us fix this.” He pauses for a moment, furrows his eyebrows and looks up with an honesty that Loki cannot remember a single other person give him in his lifetime - not this true, anyway, not this cruel - “I don’t trust you, Loki, but do this and I’ll...I’ll be grateful, truly.” Loki nods seriously and crouches low to pull the flap of the tent away and lead himself into the tent.

The interior is large, larger than he expected, but the mere presence of the man inside clogs up the air until Loki can hardly breathe. He’s shaking, the man with long hair, Loki can’t remember his name - wants to remember his name - is mumbling under his breath. Not even the Allspeak can pick up his words, they’re so quiet, like a secret mumbled by a madman a moment before his death.

“What is wrong with him?” Loki asks Steve, staring at the man with trembling limbs with a tremble of his own.

“He’s...he’s gone through a lot but...but we thought he was better. Something’s wrong with his mind and-”

Loki cuts him off with a raised hand. “It’s okay, Captain, you don’t have to say any more. I will help.”

“If you-”

“Don’t worry; I will not harm him. There is no benefit for me to do so. This man is tortured, that much is clear, there is no reason to do anything but fix him.” Steve frowns, staring at Loki with the same distrust he always does, but with a similar glimpse of hope that Thor has carried around all these years.

Loki crouches and approaches the man with the care of a man in front of a wolf, holding out a hand, watching the green magic manipulate the temperature until it begins to warm the man’s head. The man screams, shouts somewhere in the midst of him to “STOP! STOP! PLEASE STOP! I’LL DO ANYTHING. Just don’t hurt him-” - Loki cannot stand it but he cannot stand to leave this man alone (his own memories are too fresh, the pain too large) - louder and louder until the whole of New Asgard can hear it. Loki reaches into his mind but cannot silence him, his only option is to do this the hard way.

To make the man silent would be to take away his will and he has vowed, even to himself, that he no longer wants to do that, no longer wants to cause the atrocities he was once allowed to mould. He no longer wants others to suffer what he has suffered. He reaches out further, tendrils of magic crossing synapses, plucking at memories and harboured thoughts, not daring to look, just glimpse. Darkness surrounds all of it; Loki finds himself travelling through dark tunnels, seeing glimpses of light always just out of reach.

“You’re going to have to listen to me,” Loki says, reaching out now with both hands, fingers on either side of the man’s temple - he wishes now, more than ever, that he could say the man’s name, he can see it so brightly, he just can’t decode the message. He know it might bring him back, it might-

Dammit.

“You see the light?” Loki pauses and pushes the image into his mind. “Reach for it. Whatever you see, whatever it is, say it aloud. Bring yourself to the present. Drag yourself from the darkness. You want the light. Reach for the light,” Loki repeats, shutting his eyes and focusing as hard as he can, dodging the bullets of pain that are almost on par with his own suffering.

Why the fuck had he decided to help? When the fuck had he ever helped fucking mortals?

“Bucky. My name’s Bucky. James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes,” the man, Bucky, says, over and over until Loki almost believes it’s a lie. Then the numbers start, so random and inconsequential that Loki can’t begin to figure out the meaning until they begin to repeat, over and over, but he’s still looking and the light grows, grows until it’s more than filling the landscape, instead it’s blinding him, flashing like a headlights of car that’s about to hit.

“Stop! Stop it!” Loki urges, eyes still shut in concentration as he brings back as much of the darkness as he can. Slowly, Loki’s own memories creep in (a purple face, blue eyes, blue skin) and everything falls into chaos. Black mixes with white until an unhealthy grey paint splatters against everything he’s tried to create and Bucky then reaches into _his_ mind. Loki can’t stop it, not without damage. Not at this point, anyway.

Grey fades into purple, purple fades to blue and everything - everything- comes back.

Bucky decides that this is the moment to wake up. He blinks slowly, trying to regain his consciousness, when his eyes catch Loki, then Steve, then the tent. He takes each one in with as much fastidiousness as Loki devotes to his schemes and breathes a deep sigh.

“Steve-”

“Don’t start on me, Buck. It was one relapse. We’re not sending you back to Wakanda.”

“But-”

“No buts. We’re staying and we’re helping.” Steve pauses; his face softens. “You alright?”

Bucky nods, scratching a flesh arm with metal fingers. “As good as I can be. That hasn’t happen in a long time.”

Steve nods. “I’ll leave you to it. Loki?” Loki stands to follow the Captain and give this man what Steve seems to think he wants when a metal arm clutches his and says “wait, stay. I need to talk to you.” It’s said hurriedly, almost so fast that Loki doesn’t understand but Loki doesn’t _not_ hear, he would have failed in a number of his schemes if he had.

Loki doesn’t want to stay, there’s so many reasons he doesn’t want to stay but when Steve says “ya sure, Buck?” like it’s not Loki’s choice at all. Bucky nods again and Steve rushes out, leaving Loki to sit cross-legged in front of the man that knows more now about Loki than anyone else ever has.

Loki hates it, hates that no one knows the significance of what just happened, like it was something simple, like he hadn’t just showed someone a life of secrets and pain and torture and god knows what. Loki hadn’t even been thanked for it. “Thank you.” Or maybe he has. “Not many help with this,” Bucky sighs, pointing mockingly at his head.

“You’re welcome,” Loki replies simply: silence is his best weapon.

“I saw inside-”

“I know,” Loki cuts him off with a raised palm. “You shouldn’t have but you have. We will leave it at that.”

“You’re scared,” Bucky says in disbelief, although his face remains as flat and impassive as ever, like it is impossible for a god to be scared (Loki would claim the same).

“I am the Prince of Asgard, I am not-” Loki does claim the same.

“You _are_ scared,” Bucky states. “I mean, it’s probably what you should be feeling but-”

“Don’t you dare say what I should and shouldn’t feel, mortal,” Loki spits, standing. “You should know, you have _seen_ , how much I value my privacy and you have intruded on that, even if by no fault of your own but you don’t get to _dare_ try and push feelings on me. I was magnanimous enough to give you freedom from your own mind and all you can do in return is a simple thank you and a few insulting comments. And people say kindness is rewarded,” Loki sneers before storming out of the tent, fuming, his mind going from irritation to incandescence (Loki never said he wasn’t one for melodrama). He paces back and forth, landing further each time until he has reached the cliff face again.

He falls to sit, his legs swaying in the wind, hair whipping wildly around his face and breathes in: and out, and in, and out. He almost feels sick.

They said he could be good, that he could be kind, that he had the potential for so much more but as soon as he goes to accomplish it, it is thrown back in his face.

He’s in it for the long run, though, he tells himself this time. If only because of the peace he’s already been granted. But the rest of it hasn’t set in yet, like its a dream that he’s yet to be fully aware of: he’s just told someone everything. Everything he’s been hiding behind the metal and bone of his skin is out in the open. All to a mortal who doesn’t even have the awareness to say sorry or to give him more than a mere ‘thank you’.

It had seemed so important in the moment, saying thank you (few people have ever done that to him, if ever) but now it seems futile. Now it sounds like every lie that’s rolled off his lips.

“Loki! Loki!” Someone calls from behind him, a man, flailing, with such a familiar look on his face but a different person entirely.

“Bucky?” Loki asks as he turns, looking this man from top to bottom. This is not the man he saw merely a few minutes prior (Loki has become accustomed to inspecting the details of someone’s manner in order to derive facts) but a man who shares his face.

“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry about all that, pal. When… _he_ gets like that, there’s not much to stop it.”

“Him?” Loki says, despite himself, his curiosity too strong for his anger to overcome it.

“Yeah, you saw into my mind, you must have seen him.”

“I saw into your mind but I did not look, I would not intrude upon someone’s thoughts like that,” Loki says, the double meaning evident.

“Oh, well,” Bucky starts awkwardly “um, Hydra, the ones that took me, they...screwed with my head a little. I now have...what is it, um, oh yeah! Multiple personality disorder, or that’s what Steve says anyway, he looked it up on that weird phone thing o’ his. Oh, I really shouldn’t sound that happy about that but anyway, yeah, now I’m a bit...infrequent in my reactions.” Loki has never heard of such a phenomenon but is both madly interested and gut-wrenchingly scared of its existence. A man he can’t read because he changes perpetually but a whole knew psychological element that he’s yet to explore.

“Anyway, I wanna apologise. I didn’t know that ya would be so...I mean, I just wasn’t thinkin’. I shoulda respected your privacy.” Loki isn’t interested in the apology anymore, though it may prevent anger from growing later on, but in the man’s odd mannerisms that jar so badly with the man he’d met before. “Your accent has changed,” Loki notes, “as well as your mood and your body language. Is that normal for someone of your condition?”

Bucky frowns, like he expected a different answer, but smiles and nods. “Basically, yeah. Steve says I have three main ones. This is Bucky. I am Bucky. Um, there’s also the soldier. And the third doesn’t come out much but he’s Sascha - Russian, bit angry, but less murderous and more vocal. Prefer him, really. There's a few others that kinda...blur all o’ them together but I dunno,” he shrugs “those tend to be forgotten. Don't really have names.”

“So you see these men as…” Loki pauses to think over his words, “different people, of sorts.” Bucky nods encouragingly, like he’s teaching a child. “Yup.” He frowns just a little. “HYDRA got rid of who Bucky was an in its place, is three new people. I think, right now, that I’m like I used to be but Steve says I’m not so I guess it’s all really in my mind now. I’m probably crazy but it’s best not t’ think about that sorta stuff. My memories don’t translate very well onto who I am now, it’s all a bit of a jumble but I’d like t’ think I’m not completely crazy: not like the hobos ya used to see around Brooklyn anyway, mumbling about all sorts of apocalypse sorta stuff. Anyway,” he shakes himself out of it, “I shouldn’t be rambling. You got things to do. Thanks again and I’m sorry, really am. Your secrets’ safe with me - and even more so with the other two. They’ve got more secrets than even you can imagine.” Bucky flees before Loki has a chance to ask anything more. Despite the half-nonsense Bucky speaks in, there’s a clear intelligence - not of academia but of common sense - that radiates from his optimism.

It unsettles Loki. He has seen Sascha- or so he thinks - and he can imagine that this Winter Soldier character and neither are optimists. He wonders whether that is what Bucky is bred from, a need for hope somewhere in the tangle of this thoughts. Loki may not have pried but he’s seen enough of the darkness to know that that man’s mind is a gutter, an inescapable hole that even Loki fears.

Loki turns back to the seafront, watching the gentle tides, and calms. Bucky apologised, Loki can’t be angry; none of it was Bucky’s fault anyway. Three men in one head, what may seem like a miracle appears more and more clearly to be a painful tearing into thirds, each personality fighting for dominance when they can’t.

Loki wonders how Bucky comes out at all when he has such forces of nature pushing against him. Loki wonders if he’s underestimating him because of his jovial kindness, if the man’s hidden personas still weave a darkness through his blood like mischief is blurred into Loki’s.

There’s something about Bucky that gives Loki optimism; a man fighting what he’s become in order to be good. Selflessly. That much is clear. Whilst Loki fights for others’ sake, like an addict fights for soberness for his family, Bucky clearly wants to be good in his own right - even if a bad mimicry of the man he was a century ago. An awful one, Loki can tell. Loki has researched all of the Avengers, including Steve Rogers. He knows how Steve grew up, how Bucky grew up, and no man lives through poverty by being kind.

But the force of nature that is his positivity floods Loki with a wish to copy that. Loki knows he cannot be a mimicry of Bucky’s own mimicry but he can damn well follow his example. Loki has lived his life believing he was born to lead but isn’t it time he learns to follow?

He ruled Asgard, for a time, under the guise of his father, and what became of it? Nothing. The power was meaningless, the trick boring and the fallout as painful as it was effortful. It’s time for a change, he decides. New Asgard, new him (he hates himself for giving into the cliche).

He brings his satchel to his front and pulls out the piece of parchment that he’s been designing Valhalla on, protected by his own magic signature, and looks for the spot where Bucky’s tent is standing - or he hopes it’s Bucky’s tent - and draws a small circle, a simple rune in the middle to signify a simple meaning: hope. A statue, in its place, for the moment that Loki’s decided to be good.

He just needs people to believe in him now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get the approval they need and works begin to go ahead. Meanwhile, Loki tries to rectify his reputation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting chapter summaries but I wrote a lot of this a while ago so I apologise if they don't quite correspond with the chapter. Feel free to point out if they don't.

Thor returns with a beaming smile and an all too arrogant gait and a scroll, or whatever they call it here on Midgard, in his hand. He waves it with a gleeful cheer and a booming roar of success, revealing the news of their partial success. Building a new country was not something that could happen over a month but they’d at least gotten far enough to build the physical buildings.

Norway had agreed to a partnership. They would be part of the Norwegian states, under the name of Asgard, and act with separate government but under the rule of Norway itself: a supervised state similar to those in England during the Roman invasion.

Loki, although not entirely happy with the idea of both ruling and being ruled, does not state his displeasure, if only to accomplish his new goal. Loki begins to draw with new vehemence, scribbling ideas and mapping out neatly the slow coming-together ideas, ignoring the growing intensity in his mind as he mulls over the events of the last few months.

He’s established the six states over the nine by five mile area they’ve been given: Valhalla, Asgard (the centre of New Asgard), Bifrost, Drafla, Brafa and Frigga (after his late mother, who will forever be missed by him and his people).

His plans are approved within days and construction, in its entirety, starts a month later. Between the building of foundations and the upheaval of the land, Thor returns to diplomacy, slowly introducing Loki into his talks, even if the man himself is not present. He takes different people with him every time, leaving behind only Steve and Bucky as a constant. Neither of the men seem to care, looking at peace with the consolidation that they are remaining where they are.

They look like men who have travelled too far for too long.

Loki helps out as much as he can, as much as he is able, without the use of his magic. He still feels the burn within him, bright and burning, but with this new responsibility, he vows to rely on his magic less and his wits more. For a long time, they were interconnected and now he wishes that he hadn’t forced that upon himself. Trickery and magic came together as one.

Without the use of his magic, he is (almost entirely) useless in the physical building process but he soon finds himself a brawn to his brain. Bucky Barnes, or Sascha, or whoever is around at Loki’s convenience, has become the muscle whilst Loki directs and chatters mindlessly (never mindlessly but as much as is possible for Loki) whilst Steve watches them in utter amazement. His best-friend (or so he hopes) and his mortal enemy…friends? But, like the unconventional man (against all odds) that he is, he begins to join in.

When Thor returns, Loki is seemingly with friends - which is surprising no matter the context - and when Thor sees who it is he’s… proud. He really is. He’s proud, because what else can he be for his brother.

It’s a hot, sweaty Saturday when the first building is erected. A glistening glass building that rises above the skyline. It is nothing if not impressive, shining in the Norwegian summer sun; it will be the centre of New Asgard (as they have _impressively_ called it) and will act as the throne room, as well as the beginnings of a newly formed government.

The Norwegians, although respecting of Asgard culture, asked for one favour in return for their cooperation - a democracy. Thor and Loki can rule as they like as kings but they cannot go unchecked (we all saw how well that ended on Asgard) and, similarly to American government, or the Roman democracy that Thor has first read about, they choose to have a senate.

Valkyrie, or as they’ve recently learnt Brunhilde, is the first to sign up: this is only the first surprise of the day. Natasha Romanoff also signs up, for no apparent reason. She is in no way part of Asgardian culture, nor is she a politician. But, Steve whispers to Thor one day, “this is the new start she’s been looking for. She can leave everything behind without leaving anything at all. And she can do good whilst not being in the whirlwind of political chaos in America.”

Heimdall is the next to sign up - there is a vote, for democracy’s sake, but few argue with the self-nominated candidates - and takes the role of Leader of the Senate, a second-rate king who may or may not have just as much power as Thor and Loki themselves.

The rest are of Asgard, some more powerful than others. A new life has brought equality when no people thought it ever would arrive. Peasants are amongst the group to nominate themselves and many are voted in, if not for their down-to-earth style then their surprising intelligence.

Thor has no qualms against this. Loki may have a few; new life, though, he tells himself - snobbery is not going to get him anywhere.

The new building is where the first meeting is held with the new Senate. Thor sits on the Right Throne, Loki on the Left Throne, each labelled with their own gleaming gemstone, the only sign of royalty encrusted into the simplistic chairs - beautifully carved wood but wood nonetheless.

The meeting is futile, for the most part, but Loki is introduced with new enthusiasm and his speech makes his brother little more than choke up. Loki never really intended for it to happen; he’s still pretty alone in this New Asgard, his life has little changed, but when he looks out into the audience and sees the trembling hands of his subjects, he voices the issues with clarity.

“I, Loki,” he begins, looking out the crowd with a sigh. “Scrap that.” He takes in a rugged breath and continues to let the layers peel away. “You know who I am and for the first time in my life, I’m going to speak without a script.” For the sake of drama, he rips his sheet of paper in half - they tell him here that it’s not called parchment, not, at least, for the most part. “You may still not believe me after this but I am allowing myself to let this facade that I have maintained over the centuries drop. I vow to you now, as your new king, one of two, that I am turning over a new leaf.

“This may seem unrealistic or you may be thinking, as many of you should be, that I don’t deserve redemption nor a throne. And I won’t give excuses for my actions. They were abominable. I feel the guilt for that every day. I mask it with words and magic and tricks because I’m the God of Chaos and Ice and that is what they told me I should be my entire life.

“I don’t want to be that. I won’t be that. I refuse to be that. For once in my life, I’m going to start truly afresh. I will not use my magic because it draws me to a side of myself, which we all have, that I don’t want to look at anymore. I will use it if and when it is necessary to anyone else; I will try and lose my selfishness. And I cannot promise that this will be quick endeavour. It may be long and arduous and a perpetual cycle that I keep breaking. But I am determined.

“I will do good by you, as my country that I rule. Because I have failed too many times. I have lost myself to my own mind and I have lost myself to other people’s minds as well.” He breathes deeply and lets the word spill out without thinking, without breaking, without a thought to the reactions, to the manipulation behind the words (because words, he knows, are inherently made to manipulate).

“I lost myself for two years to the Mad Titan’s will. I capitulated to two years of torture and due to that, I killed hundreds here on this very planet. Because I was weak. Because I could not face the idea of time. Because I could not see another way out… and I was selfish, and I took the easiest route out.

“I will not do that again. Ever. That much, I promise.” He sits back down with grace, eyes settled on the floor, hands trembling in the blinding light of the wide glass room, flittering sunlight burning his eyes, gentle whites making his skin glow like toxic waste, black hair shining like ink.

What he doesn’t expect is the raucous applause. It’s unnecessary, if anything a little sardonic and patronising but Loki smiles despite it. He hides it behind a hand, of course, but he smiles. For once, he realises, being selfless has made him happy. It is not true selflessness, he still has something to gain from this but he also has everything to lose. In this, he is promising something that he can break in a snap of his fingers.

He is promising the world on a dime.

He practically runs out of the hall when Thor’s speech is made, the Senate have been introduces and the session has been called to an end. He wears no cape, no heeled shoes, no horns on his head so he slips out like a rat from a bustling kitchen. Thor, in all his glorious armour, is stuck in the crowd (Loki doesn’t hear the questions, he doesn’t hear the confirmation that Thor tells them all that Loki is telling the truth because Thor really believes it this time. Against all better judgment, all of it, against everything he’s ever said in the last few years, Thor believes him).

Loki escapes to the cliffs of Valhalla, where the foundations are being lay for Loki’s own home. The Spire - the only building now fully standing - is where Thor and his visitors will stay (although Thor is sure to find a place of his own as well, if the woman inside will let him stay) whilst Loki writes letters and plans and conspires (he has to admit, it’s a skill set they need; he can’t strip himself of everything he once was) in the political mess that is Earth, in his - or what is planned to be - little more than a cottage. A luxurious one, of course, but a cottage nonetheless.

Loki has a penchant for grandeur. But for once, he just wants to do what he used to do and look in from the outside, this time with the knowledge that he was the one that made it that way.

The rolling sea tosses and turns as always - like a insomniac feigning sleep - and Loki watches with avid fascination as the crashing waves hit the rocky cliff face. Such tranquility and chaos melded into one puts a smile on his face. He turns his hand just once, watching the water slosh the other way all at once and smiles, pushing his magic back into its golden box at the back of his mind: one little bit of enjoyment for a day well spent. A price that isn’t murder or violence or trickery, just beauty.

The rustling of grass warns him of his guests, a faint whir of mechanical engineering to his left and the gentle thud of heavy boots on his right.

Bucky strides up to him without fault, safe with the knowledge - or belief - that he could kill Loki in a moment. Steve is more hesitant, moving at the last minute to sit next to Bucky instead, a severe look on his face.

“Hey, Loki, that was hella of a speech you made back there.” Loki smiles, glad to see that Bucky has made an appearance - as he is for the most part, except for the few times Sascha has come out to play.

“Not much by my standards.” He shrugs, if he’s honest, the lack of finesse does sound…wrong, at the least but the raw honesty brought another aspect to a great speech that he’s never witnessed before, even if - in all - he thought that that speech deserved a lot less than it was given.

“Eh, your standards are too high,” Bucky waves him off, smiling. Steve leans forward, peering around Bucky and nods respectively. “It was a good speech, Loki,” he admits honestly, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. “Truly.”

Loki smiles down at his hands, examining the crevices and callouses and the small scar right in the middle of his hand where Thanos had-

No, that’s not for now. That’s not something he ever wants to think about.

“Thank you, it means a lot,” Loki thanks, looking out wistfully to sea. “It has been a long time since I have bared my thoughts to such an audience. It was…satisfactory.” He purposefully uses modesty in order to keep us his crumbling facade, he needs to do this gently or he’ll never do it at all. And if anyone is going to believe him, he can’t just change with a click of his fingers. “Satisfactory,” Bucky scoffs. Steve just smiles.

Loki takes a breath of the salty sea air and swings his legs over the side; the two super-soldiers copy him, looking between themselves with sly smiles and coy smirks.

“Was there a reason for your visit?” Loki asks, still not used to the idea of ‘no motivations’; it almost feels impossible, it _is_ impossible (Loki still believes that) but it’s something he has to put to the back of his mind if he’s going to succeed in this.

“Thought we’d congratulate you,” Bucky shrugs, swinging his legs a little harder. “Thor was looking for you too.” There was the motivation. “But it’s up to you whether you find him.” Choice, that’s new. “He’s proud of you, ya know. He thinks you’re really making a turnaround…” The statement is almost a question, one that Steve also seems very intent on knowing the answer to.

“I am trying, as much as I am capable. I’m fighting my nature,” Loki admits, forcing himself to look at the sea and not the scrutinising eyes of the two super soldiers. “That is never going to be a quick process.”

“Not many people can defeat their nature,” Steve frowns.

“Not many of you mortals live love enough to do so.”

“So you’re saying you will not change into what you want to be until we’re gone?” Steve questions, like it’s an interrogation not a friendly conversation.

“Patience, Captain. I will do no harm but I am still the God of Mischief, deceiving is in my nature. It does not always injure but it can lead to one of a million consequences,” he deflects.

“I think your first of call should be to start speaking clearly. Thor does so so it’s certainly not an Asgardian thing.”

“Steve-“ Bucky complains but Loki interrupts him.

“I think you may be right. I have bent language and the Allspeak to trick people to my own will. Speaking without ambiguity will be an aim of mine.” Steve scoffs quietly but Bucky is quick to speak up.

“I think that’s great. I’m told I have to make aims and complete one of them at a time. I find making a list helps, writing them all down, I mean.” Bucky smiles, so brightly that Loki thinks he might be blinded but notes the idea for later and looks over Bucky to Steve.

“Captain, I know you are doubtful but I will prove you wrong.” He tries to use his words clearly, without double meaning or deception, but isn’t sure if he succeeds.

“I hope so. I really do,” Steve sighs as he stands up, holding out a hand for Bucky. “We need to get back to Thor. Do you want us to tell him where you are, Loki?” Loki nods, knowing that it’s time that he and his brother truly spoke without the dangers of battle at their feet - true and honest, like brothers at last.

Bucky smiles as he says his goodbye and runs off after Steve; Loki wonders what they really are to each other.

*

Steve and Bucky have been inseparable since birth, really. Not quite. They wish they had been - Steve then might not have to endured the first five years of the bullying without a friend at his side. How they really became friends is beyond anyone’s comprehension.

To start at the beginning, or as far back as Steve can get, they met on a windy day in October - Steve remembers that because Bucky had saved him from being swept off his feet, as frail as he was - and the chill in the air was threatening the burden of pneumonia again.

Steve was surrounded, a group of five bullies looming over little five-year-old Steve with their menacing seven-year-old smiles. He cowered, curling in on himself, already beaten to the floor but the determination set above his flushed cheeks pushed him forward. He was almost certain that he’d cracked a rib but he turned and pummelled (as much as was possible for little five-year-old Steve) the first boy he found. And then, like a miracle that he’d been praying for all his life, the boy falls. He hadn’t really hit that hard (although he’d hit his hardest) but the boy was flying like an airplane across the sky…forward.

Someone had kicked him from behind.

It’s then that little-ol’ Stevie Rogers sees Bucky Barnes, at that moment a boy he only knows by look, standing tall and proud - like the impressive six-year-old he is - with his boot raised in the air. “Scram,” he shouts, scaring the boys away with a raised fist. It’s long since been known that Bucky Barnes is not a boy to mess with. A gangster in the making, the women say in the neighbourhood.

Steve doesn’t think so.

He likes Bucky.

(He doesn’t know just how much back then).

Bucky holds his hand out and says, rather simply, “no one should do that. The names Bucky Barnes, what’s yours?”

It all begins then, Steve reminisces, watching as the new Bucky - one that reminds Steve so much of that six-year-old with his fists clench and boot raised - flails haplessly around his tent to try and find something (Steve doesn’t even know what). Steve also watches as the stress drives him into himself and Sascha turns around, eyeing Steve with suspicion.

“Steve,” he acknowledges like Steve has just walked into the room and has not been standing there for the duration of Bucky’s flailing.

“Sascha,” Steve replies; he’s gotten used to switching between them now. Or, he thinks he has - it’s still difficult and disorienting most of the time.

“Why are you here? Do you need something?” Sascha asks tonelessly, the Russian accent creeping in at the edges, almost giving it a crisp blankness that makes the accent untraceable.

“No, no. I was just here with Buck.”

“Oh yeah. You were,” Sascha says as he focuses (none of the memories ever change between personas but he often seems to block out the last few minutes, trying to connect himself to the last time he was out). “Sorry.” The words are forced but Steve is glad nonetheless; Sascha is learning some manners, ones that he was never brought up (if you can call it that) with.

“No problem,” Steve says softly, backing out the tent. “I’ll see you in a bit, Sascha.”

“And you, Steve.” Steve sighs as he leaves, leaving Sascha to his own accord, doing God knows what. Steve’s heart cracks just a little bit more, the clear pane of glass now almost white, but he sucks it up and breathes.

Buck knows it’s hard for Steve and Steve recognises that it’s not good for him (Sam must have finally drilled it in) but he ignores it in favour of remembering the old Buck. He knows that the new Buck isn’t the one he used to love, he knows that Sascha is most certainly not the James he knew and The Winter Soldier, well, he’s a different being entirely.

Steve shuffles across the grass, finding himself by the seafront, mimicking what he sees Loki doing so often. And there’s another thing: Loki. That man, that man that did so much…

Hate? Cruelty? Murder? How can Steve even sum it up? It seems so redundant now that Steve had learnt little bits about the man, like he can just make you forget with a small smile or a step in the right direction.

Steve suddenly understands Thor so much more.

He’s dealing with a god here and god’s deal in war and genocide and everything in the masses so Steve can’t decide whether he can really blame Loki for a lot of what he’s done. In Loki’s eyes, he didn’t do anything wrong - although he understands that from Steve’s perspective, that is must have been atrocious.

Steve tries to remember that, tries to remember that Loki understands his point of view so he should understand Loki’s too.

He tries, he really does. He doesn’t quite get it, not yet. But he will. Because, if not anything else, Steve is stubborn and he will fight for the answer until he has it.

Steve doesn’t notice the faint rustle of the grass until the man in thought is next to him, green tunic billowing in the wind, loosely clinging to his thin frame. Loki has tied his black hair into a sleek ponytail, small ringlets framing his face. In this light - the dim sunlight of a glow behind a layer of white clouds - he almost looks, dare Steve say it, gorgeous. Loki has always had an ethereal look to him, god-like (fitting, really), like he’s been made for perfection. Steve tries to find the flaws and he does, he knows no creature - alien or not - is perfect but there’s still something so perfect about the blemishes under his eye or the one on top of his lip.

“Captain?” Loki questions just at the moment Steve realises he’s been staring a little too intently for a little too long. “Are you trying to reveal my secrets? Or are you planning an art project? I can assure you, I am no good subject for such a doing nor will looking get you any closer to my truth.”

Steve huffs a laugh because of course Loki thinks that the only reason someone could be looking at him so intently is to figure out his secrets or for something as mundane - no matter how beautiful - as a picture. “No, not at all. Just…was lookin’”, Steve admits, blushing. Loki looks equally embarrassed but hides it well, as comes with a thousand years of practice.

“Oh…” Loki tails off, seemingly at a loss for what to say. Steve bites back a laugh but averts his eyes. Dark clouds are rolling in from the East, enough to dampen the beautiful weather and turn the sunny, blue day into a dank grey within a second. Norwegian wind picks up and gusts start to tangle around the pair, driving them from the cliffs edge. Or it should have been. They stay right where they are, adrenaline pumping through their veins, gentle smiles on their faces as hair whips and slashes like crashing waves against the jagged rocks.

Steve’s at a loss for words as he stares at the beauty in front of him. Even with the layer of clouds, the sea sparkles like it’s stardust, white and blue blending and threading through each other until it’s just…impossible.

Steve wishes he had the ability to capture it in a painting, or even a photo and frowns at his lack of ability.

Loki watches Steve now, sick of the sight of the sea, the vast eternalness of it, even if it ends only a few miles away. He’s sickened by the dark shadows that toil in the depths so instead he takes a deep breath and just…watches Steve.

Virtuous, just, stoic Captain Steve Rogers.

The man that is everything that Loki is not. The thing that Loki strives to be but knows he will never accomplish. And really, if Loki pays enough attention to himself (which he never does), he’d know that that isn’t really what he wants, what _anyone_ wants. Perfection is a curse more often than it is a blessing, deferential praise becoming insincere or idle worship becoming like a nagging bark of a misbehaved dog.

Loki stares at the blonde streaks that hit Steve’s skin, darkened with long hours of exposure to the sun. Loki stares at the glimmer in the blue eyes at the moment Steve realises he’s looking at something beautiful. Loki stares as Steve’s mouth curls up into a graceful smile, quiet and content, not wide but small, but ever more powerful than a toothy-grin. Honest, Loki realises.

Just how he was staring at _him_ , Loki realises.

He gulps.

“Was there a reason you are out here, Captain?” Loki asks to distract himself from his raging heart. “I don’t mean to ask for your leave, I simply am surprised to see you here.” Alone seems to be the word that is missing.

Steve breathes, leaning back on flattened palms, swinging his legs dangerously over the edge of the cliff, just as he has always done - an unbreakable ritual that he’s done since the first day he saw Loki doing it.

“Sascha came around. Didn’t wanna interrupt his thing,” Steve sighs, losing syllables to the wind.

“That man doesn’t seem to have many ‘things’ that he’s doing that you are capable of interrupting,” Loki observes, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Steve just sighs again, clearly irritating by the voicing of his own doubts. “I know but I just…”

“You don’t want to see your friend like that,” Loki finishes, seeing right through him. The guilt on Steve’s face proves it all. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of…Steve,” Loki tries, testing the name on his lips - he finds he doesn’t mind it. “He is not the man you once knew and that is something for you to become accustomed to over time. Furthermore, the man is many men in one body, it is not your place to have to befriend all of them.” Steve nods, looking a little relieved and even a little more comforted. Loki’s proud of his efforts; Steve is too.

“Thanks,” Steve is quick to reply, breathing out quietly. “It’s just been…complicated since he came back. It’s just-“ Steve cuts off abruptly, eyeing Loki warily.

Loki is disappointed but accepts it duly. “You do not have to spill your heart to me. You do not trust me and if you do not trust me, it will do you no good to tell me your fears. I do ask that you tell someone, though. You are a good man, you shouldn’t have to keep emotions locked up. I’ve seen too many men do it; I’ve seen many men drive themselves to destruction with it.” It’s the best advice Loki can give, in a period of vulnerability that he hopes will draw Steve that little bit closer.

Steve smiles; Loki knows he’s succeeded. Steve turns, looking Loki in the eye and says “thank you” like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said; it radiates honesty and sincerity and quite frankly, it’s the best thing Loki has ever received.

Maybe, just maybe, Loki isn’t doing so bad at this ‘good’ thing after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki tries to help but it only backfires. That's all it ever does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting a bit more angsty now but a lot of the sadness is yet to come

They can all still name the day it all went wrong. It’s a cloudy day; autumn is rolling in and it’s becoming ever more apparent that the miraculous summer weather had not been traditional of Norway’s weather system.

To say they can all name this day is a little bit of an overstatement. In fact, very few found this day of any importance at all. But the enormity of it to the few - the two - that witnessed it felt like it must have torn the world apart.

It’s the day that the Winter Solider appears. It is also the day, as they later find out, that Bucky Barnes tries to kill himself for the first time since 1951.

Steve and Loki are helping each other draw the outskirts of the new city (Loki had recently found out about Steve’s love of art and had immediately inquired about having some help on his side of things and not just the construction). Steve is a quick study and learns the rules of architecture as well as he does traditional painting. Although, for the most part, he tends to sketch what comes up in his imagination whilst Loki applies the physics to ensure that it will be stable as well as practical. The beauty, though, that is coming out of it is remarkable.

Some days, Bucky will sit there and just watch them in all their ‘we’re enemies awkwardness’ and look at the beautiful designs on both the page and in front of them. Bucky finds that he loves to just look at them - a Greek god next to a Norse one.

Today, Bucky is gone, exploring the vast expanse of the Norwegian landscape, no doubt getting dirty in the wet mud that last night’s rain left behind (Steve shudders at the thought of having to push Bucky under a hosepipe, he’s still not fond of showers). Steve is sketching idly in his book, coloured pencils lined up next to him, finishing the shading for the latest building - it’s red and orange, like a flame, spiralling up in a whirlwind. Loki says he can make it happen; it’s going to be one of the most beautiful buildings on this Earth.

All of New Asgard will be.

The shading is down to a T, the orange blending perfectly into the red, when Loki sits up straight, eyes darting to the sopping monstrosity on their left. “Bucky,” Steve complains when he sees the mess, “was it really necessary to get yourself _covered_ in mud.” Because he was, dreadfully so: like a monster that had crawled from a bog.

Bucky tilts his head, eyebrows drawing into a frown as he stares at the pair with a peculiar detachment. “Sascha?” Steve tries; at just the same moment, a fist is around his throat. Loki tries to reach for the soldier but a perfectly timed punch to the gut sends Loki rolling, clutching his stomach with wide eyed shock as he looks up at the monster that dared hurt him.

Steve is turning purple, his veins bulging, when Loki stands up (his teeth bared like a hissing panther) ands stalks forward, a knife flipping in his hand, coming to existence from a plane that Steve cannot even begin to comprehend.

The knife enters the soldiers arm with military precision, slicing through skin and fat and muscle until it hits bone, splintering it like an axe does a tree. “Get away from him,” Loki hissed, the quiet menace enough for even the Winter Soldier to quiver. But the Soldier does not let go, he never lets go. Instead, he holds tighter, like Steve’s death is the key to his own survival. Steve feels a vein pop, feelings the blood begin to clog his body, feels every single little sensation down to the burn of it in his muscles, saturated in red.

Steve is a super soldier; Steve will recover from what no one else can.

Steve will feel just as much pain (if not more for the time that he has to remain conscious for it).

Loki stares down at the blade in his hand, watches the luscious red trickle from his friends skin and breathes deeply: this is not his friend, this is an enemy. He must, for the sake of another friend, stop this man from continuing.

“Soldat!” Loki shouts, not ever realising that the Allspeak is translating for the Soldier’s sake. “Stand down, that’s an order.” Loki doesn’t know why he tries that but maybe it is clever consideration, or a rash thought that derived from the few facts Steve had put together from what he’d seen and read about the soldier.

Loki stares in fascination as the soldier looks up, removes his hand from his best friend’s throat and bows his head. “Da,” he whispers, bowing deferentially. Steve looks both physically and mentally sick, staring at the pair with anguish and pain.

“Bucky, you in there?” Loki calls, holding up his knife so it can go through the Soldier’s shoulder if need be, just at the point that will dehabilitate his metal arm, rendering his strongest weapon useless. “Bucky!” Loki shouts louder when the Soldier remains silent.

“Hit him,” Steve croaks, his voice both broken and hoarse as well as carrying the worst guilt Loki has ever heard.

“What?!” Loki replies, dumbfounded.

“Hit. Him,” Steve hisses out, his throat closing up worse and worse each second. “If…unconscious…he’ll…he’ll be able to- wake up…differently.” Loki nods and trusts Steve’s words. Leaving the knife where it is, he raises a fist and lets an insurmountable amount of energy pass through it, enough to defeat even the most cockroach resembling super soldiers, and pushes it into Bucky’s right cheek. The Soldier hits the ground instantly, looking eerily calm in his sleep.

Loki’s breaths are rapid, his heart beat palpable in his chest as he tries to recover from the adrenaline rush over the last few minutes. The Soldier is still covered head to toe in mud, his youthful face stained by the dark shades of the dirt of seventy years of torture even more so that the clogging stains of wet mud. “Steve,” Loki breathes suddenly, head spinning as he turns to Steve, whose choking on his own blood, red dripping out of his mouth.

“To the Norns, Steve, Steve can you hear me?” Loki begins to panic. Here is the man he’s finally given himself the courage to trust, even if just an ounce, dying at his side, like so many over the centuries.

He can’t be left alone, not again.

He doesn’t care how selfish that may be but he will not let this man die, for his sake. But for Bucky’s too. Loki knows by now that Steve probably is relieved to see his life twinkling away. At least, Steve would think, that he’s dying by the hand of the man he loves the most (because Loki can see that, no matter how much either of them deny it).

Loki’s going to force him to live in order to change his mind. To give him a reason to live, just like Loki’s determined to find for himself. They’ll do it together.

Because Loki’s tried the solo route, it never works out well.

Loki runs forward, scooping Steve into his arms, his skinny arms heaving Steve up by the shoulders. “Steve, please,” Loki begs, shaking the man like that will shake the blood from his body, leaving him empty for Loki to fix. Magic starts to run through Loki’s body (fuck his rules, Steve _needs_ this), green tendrils wrapping around Loki’s wrist and past his fingers into Steve’s mouths, like a snake in a dead man’s body. Loki winces.

Blood begins to pour, copious amounts of it, a myriad of green and red like a murder at Christmas (or so Bucky would have commented if he wasn’t _fucking_ complicated). But it’s clearing, Loki can feel it. He feels that his magic has nothing left to pull and he releases it before it begins to suck up Steve’s organs and kills him for real.

Steve’s coughing but something within him is healed, the puncture presumably growing back at rapid pace with the addition of Loki’s magic. Steve looks up, wheezes “thank you” and passes out.

He doesn’t wake up for a week (no one knows why) but Bucky wakes up within an hour. Bucky, it’s important to state, and not the Soldier.

And that’s where everything goes to shit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky faces the consequences of his actions. Or, well, he tries to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the first part! The lyrics were taken from the song Home by Machine Gun Kelly (and others).

Bucky blinks into existence, heaving a breath in (and out) before clambering up to a sitting position, examining his surroundings. He furrows his eyebrows, curiosity embracing him. He knows sometimes he forgets but he really can’t recall going to bed - or any of the last few hours for that matter. He scours his brain but comes up blank.

Spotting a silhouette in the doorframe, he turns. The figure is slender, dark, no doubt the magician that Bucky’s learn to appreciate over the last few weeks.

“Loki, what’s-“ Bucky cuts off harshly when Loki appears in front of him, eyes blazing, bloodshot red flooding the underside, wild green plundered by an abyss of black.

“James?” Loki asks warily. Bucky nods, too scared by the sight of the crazed magician he’s been warned about. Loki breathes out heavily and takes a step back, straightening, blinking a few times. He nods, as if to assure himself, and comes forward again, tilting Bucky’s head to the side and examining his cheek and jaw. Only then does Bucky wince, feeling the oddly sharp sensation that runs up the side of his face.

“What ha-“

“I punched you,” Loki says without shame, pursing his lips and continuing the examination of the blue-black area.

“Why?” Bucky complains, furrowing his eyebrows menacingly - coming across as more of a child than a Soldier with the lack of glaze over his eyes.

“That doesn’t matter. Does it hurt?”

Bucky nods, unflinching. “A little. It’ll be fine.”

“You’re probably right,” Loki agrees, “just be careful, I hit you hard.” Bucky still looks a little confused so Loki continues.

“A lot has happened, James. Just get some rest. It’ll be better for all of us.”

“I don’t underst-“

“You don’t need to right now. I need to go check on something, I’ll be back. Try and rest if you can.” Loki strides out without turning back, flushing the regret out of his system and travelling to the next hut over, a far larger one with machines stuck everywhere, all pumping different liquids into the Captain’s body. Loki worries, although he won’t accept why, the Captain shouldn’t be his to worry about. Yet, he saw what happened and he knows to some extent that he is partially to blame; he did not stop it. Well, he did but still, it had taken too long and a warrior must do his duty with efficiency. Mercy is for the weak (or so he had been taught).

He stares at the Captain, unconscious for a reason that even Loki’s magic can’t detect with all his training. Everything tells him that Steve is alive but he is a still as a dead man, even the rise and fall of his chest so minute that it could be made redundant.

Loki stands in the entranceway, staring at the Captain with what he hopes is distaste but knows it so much worse - possibly hope, care, would he dare say longing? The Captain is gauntly, almost as much so as Loki, his blue eyes hidden away behind long eyelashes, light hair ruffled ungraciously around his head. Loki wouldn’t dare say it suited the man (though, allows himself to say it in his mind).

Loki sighs, taking a step backwards, turning his head so he’s looking out at the sea, the rolling cliffs, the picturesque landscape that so often helps him find himself. He finds nothing but fearful memories and blood pointlessly spilt.

But Loki finds himself unable to hate Bucky for it; Bucky is just so…Bucky. Charming, funny, endlessly optimistic. He hates the Winter Solider, he hates the vile, merciless nature of that _creature_. But then he comes torn because the Winter Soldier and James Barnes are one and the same.

Loki tries to keep it out of mind, letting his heart lead him until he’s wandering endlessly around the landscape. The two tents remain in his vision the whole time until it becomes too much and even the sight of everything he’s built - everything he’s going to build - does not lift his mood. He visits James first, peering into the tent before letting himself inside, staring at the groggily waking man, the rustling sounds coaxing him into wakefulness. “James?” Loki checks again, wary of any immediate switch. The man nods, blinking a few times before stretching out and sitting upright, letting his legs dangle over the side of the bed.

“You gonna tell me anything now?”

“Probably not.”

“Ok,” Bucky capitulates, sighing but throws his legs back on the bed and shuffles so his back is against the headrest. He picks up a book from the side table and starts sifting through nonchalantly.

“If this is your way of ignoring me, I’m not certain that it’s all that effective.” Bucky shrugs.

Loki sighs and combs a hand through his hair, wincing at the greasy strands. “That’s fine. I’ll take again soon. I have things to attend to.”

After that, Loki tries to continue his days as normal: he draws, plans and measures until everything’s just as he wants it. But, without Steve’s help and Bucky’s humour, he finds himself slowly drowning in misery until his anger begins to flare again.

Thor returns the third day that Bucky has been locked in his room, for reason’s he has still not been told - he does not take it well, the first time someone tells him he can’t leave his room but takes it a little more graciously, at least, that Sascha would - and tries to welcome himself back with a booming greeting and a wide hug. Loki finds himself averse to the smile and silently stalks off until Thor is catching up to him, long legs able to take him just as far as Loki’s.

“What is wrong, brother?”

“It is nothing; I am simply thinking.”

Thor’s mood turns dark. “Nothing good ever happens when you _think_ , Loki. What are you planning? You might as well tell me now.”

“I’m planning nothing. Do you not trust me?” Loki asks mockingly, a vicious smile curling his lips.

“What has happened to you? You were doing well.”

“Well maybe that’s exactly it, _brother_ ,” Loki drips, venom slipping from his tongue. “You’re all expecting me to do _so_ well, like I’m your little toy to mould into shape or a child in need of guidance. I am little younger that you, Thor, I know my place.”

Thor squints, examining Loki’s face for a second and the surprising action is enough for Loki to be thrown off kilter. Thor never just…waits. He’s brash, he’s quick, he’s impatient. “You’re lying. Tell me what’s happened.”

Loki sighs. “I promise nothing has happened to me. Although, there has been an incident.”

Thor suddenly looks astutely concentrating and so much wiser for it (Loki thinks bitterly, seeing a king and not a mockery). “What happened in my absence?”

“The Winter Soldier. James is back to himself again but we have withheld him to a single room. Rogers on the other hand is unconscious, has been for days, inexplicably. I have healed him but he shows no sign of waking. I have not yet given this information to James, so he is under house arrest.” Thor nods thoughtfully and takes a step back.

“Thank you, brother. I will resolve the situation.”

“No,” Loki interrupts, a little too abruptly. “This is for me to deal with.”

Thor can’t help but be overcome with a small smile. “Of course, brother. They are your friends after all.” Loki flounders for a reply but is left empty-handed as Thor drifts away, surprisingly quiet for a hunk of muscle that treads with the gentleness of a horse’s hoof on concrete.

Loki is left to himself again, wandering aimlessly around the arid countryside of the furtherest Eastern territory. Loki already has plans to build on it in a way that will hide the dead grass and barren landscape but the emptiness right now is enough to set him another step back. He looks upon it: it’s clear now that his plans might not work, especially with the lack of plant life that seems to be able to grow here.

With his mood downtrodden, he trudges back to Bucky’s hut and checks in on him. Loki stands in the doorway again, staring suspiciously at the empty bed. He scans the room until he spots Bucky curled up in a corner, knees to his chest, head hanging between his knees. Bucky looks up when Loki shuts the door behind himself and frowns. “Are you finally going to tell me what’s going on? Is…what happened?”

Loki sighs, standing in front of Bucky - towering over him - and finally admits to what happened. “You were the Winter Soldier. You tried to kill the Captain. He has been unconscious for days now. We don’t know why.” Bucky’s head snaps up and even in the dim light, Loki can see the glistening tears in his eyes.

“What?” Bucky chokes, although it’s evident that this was already a conclusion he’d thought of.

“He won’t wake up. The Winter Soldier did something-“

“You mean _I_ did something,” Bucky spits, his spine straightening. “Don’t try and make this about someone else. The Winter Soldier is me.” He quivers and curls in on himself. “Oh my god, Stevie…” he trails off, taking in a deep breath. “Can I see him?” He asks, eyes glimmering as he stares up at Loki. Loki, despite his uncertainty, acquiesces with a nod. “I’ll take you,” he says, holding out a hand, which Bucky grasps firmly and brings himself to his feet. They walk together in silence. Loki’s tense, his whole body is taut with the readiness to fight Bucky; Bucky is slouched, his entire body folding in on itself like a snail trying to hide in its shell. But it’s only when Bucky sees Steve that he can truly understand the situation.

Steve doesn’t move, that much is evident to anyone; his breathing isn’t visible except to the astute eyes of a super soldier and a magic-wielder. Loki approaches, green flickering from his unsteady hands as he does another scan of Steve’s body. In the meanwhile, he ignores Bucky crumpling to the floor, hand to his forehead, wiping the sweaty strands of hair from his face. “I did that?” He whispers, voice croaking. Loki nods, finding words unnecessary and continues his job, seeking deep for anomalies or signs of change: nothing, as usual.

“What happened?” Bucky asks with the fear of a man in the courtroom for murder.

“Strangulation. Severe internal damage. My healing abilities took care of what his healing factor couldn’t but as you can see, he is still not to wake.” Bucky nods and winces with his own self-flagellation and stands, unable to look at the man that he’s killed (or nearly so) lie comatose on the bed. Loki doesn’t follow him as he leaves, only continues to scan Steve, careful to avoid touching him, in case it leaves too large a trace of magic behind.

Loki’s reached the head when he feels it; tingling, a sensation so familiar yet so foreign. Healing, so much healing, all concentrated…mentally. For fuck sake, Loki hadn’t thought to check his _emotional capacity_. It’s a specific side of magic that Loki is less adept at; he focuses on the manipulation of words not magic to form emotions within another’s mind. It’s knotted, painfully so, but Loki is skilled enough to unwind the paths and clear the paths for the electric pulses whilst clearing the synapses of what clogs them.

Loki smiles at his work.

It takes more time to manipulate what he needs. The grief, the pain, even the happiness, need to be compartmentalised; not a particularly necessary procedure but common in Asgardian treatment for ease upon waking, usually for comatose patients, no matter how rare those cases are.

Loki is still fiddling when Steve lets out his first audible breath and the upward movements of his chest start to grow. It takes until Loki’s finished for Steve to open his eyes, his mind muddled and groggy, with no clear recollection of why he’s being ‘treated’ by Loki. For a second, he looks paralysed in fear, seeing the tendril of Loki’s magic curve around him but when he feels nothing, no change, no effect, he lets himself breath and looks up at his carer, worry palpable but manageable.

“You’ve been asleep, Captain.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Sounds familiar. How long this time?”

“Weeks.”

A sharp intake of breath, a wince and a scowl later, Steve replies “weeks?”

Loki nods, finally letting the green dissipate and letting the warm flood of gold from the lamp take it’s place. “I’m sorry, Captain, that we could not wake you sooner. I did not consult my books; it was an inept mistake on my part.” Steve waves him off dismissively, groaning and sitting upright, wracking his brains for the events leading up to his sleep.

Another sharp intake of breath, a wince and the welling of tears. “Is Bucky okay?” Loki almost laughs in incredulity. “Is he alright? He almost killed you, Captain. Your love for a friend is outstanding but misguided.”

“No, Loki, not misguided. Buck is not in a good place right now; he’s not gonna be alright.” Loki doesn’t miss the true dread that’s holding Steve in it’s embrace. Confused but apologetic, he asks “what would be wrong?” For all Loki knows about physical weakness and language, he still has little knowledge on how to _deal_ with emotions. Insane, crazy, unstable, _unhinged_ : Loki’s been named all of them, none of them make for a good therapist.

“Now’s not the time, I’m gonna go check on hi-“

“You can’t, Captain. You are not yet in a state to leave this bed. Stay put. If you are so worried about him, I will look out for him.” Steve lets out a breath but stews in his mistrust, nodding nonetheless. Loki, warning yet again that Steve cannot leave, exits the tent in search of Bucky, confounded as to what Steve could be worried about when he sees…

Bucky. Cliffs. One foot hanging over. The unstable position of someone about to fall. The position of a man about to jump.

“James, no!”

*

_Someone take me home_

_Someone take me_

_END OF PART 1_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of Home: A Place To Make Your Fate! The lyrics are taken from James Bay's 'Let It Go'

_PART 2: Let It Go_

_'So come on, let it go_

_Just let it be_

_Why don't you be you_

_And I'll be me’_

_*_

The horizon holds steady whilst Bucky rocks. He rocks back and forth (back and forth, so many fucking times it makes him dizzy) and tries to breath. He can’t. He knows he can’t. He can feel where his throat is closed, can feel where the tears stain his chocolate eyes, can feel where the tear tracks have left their marks on his already tainted skin. He can feel the sobs rise in his throat; he doesn’t dare let them out, holding them in until his chests feels like it’s rupturing. His stomach spasms in some ugly attempt at holding control, his shoulders shifting uncontrollably.

To the outside world, he’s sure he looks blank. He’s sure of it. He always looks blank nowadays. He always feels blank to. But he can feel the chaos beneath the skin, he can feel the guilt that intertwines with his happiness, tugging him down from everything he can achieve until he only gets what he deserves. Death, probably.

It doesn’t seem like a big deal anymore.

He’s died before.

He will die again.

For Steve, for what he did, for what he can do, Bucky will die. But not just for that. Bucky is practical, if not anything else, and he will not die to atone for a sin. He will die to atone for all of them. He’s seen men go on death row for a lot less than what he’s done. He knows that cold-blooded killers say goodbye to their families in a metal chair, knows that they have some emotion inside. He has some emotion; doesn’t make him anything less than a cold-blooded killer.

He can feel his trigger finger twitch at the thought. It begs him to find a gun, pull the trigger and watch the bullet fly through flesh. He wants to watch another person to die. Hydra fucked him up but what he is now, it’s still him. This is still him. That man that wants to murder, wants to kill, wants to take away the lives of innocents, that’s still him, no matter how he was manipulated him.

He wants to kill.

So he will die to atone for that sin.

He has seen into another man’s mind and used that information for his gain.

So he will die to atone for that sin.

Calmly, he pauses his rocking, pauses the insanity in his head. He just lets it...pause. The world goes silent, his vision goes black and the blue sea turns to an abyss of darkness. He lets himself think over his decision, lets himself think that he might regret his decision.

He decides he won’t. Because he hurts Steve. He wanted to hurt Steve. He can’t ever forgive himself for that. Because Steve is innocent in his eyes; Bucky doesn’t see the murder, the blood, on the red, white and blue shield. Bucky is the one that does the dirty work, not Steve. Bucky is the one that kills the men deserving of death whilst Steve tries to save the rest.

But he hurt Steve. A man innocent, as innocent as any soldier can be. He sees in black and white whilst Bucky sees in grey’s. Bucky’s morally ambiguous whilst Steve is righteous. Bucky is everything Steve shouldn’t be.

And for that, he will die.

His leg hands forward, over the edge of the cliff. This, he thinks, will be a deserving way to die. He will fall. He will fall again. He will fall into hell whilst Steve, on the day he dies when he’s ninety years old and has a family and a smile on his face, will rise to heaven.

For a second, Bucky’s heart pummels rapidly in his chest. After this, he won’t ever see Steve again. He’ll be enchained by the devil and punished for sins. Steve, on the other hand, will become a saint. But Bucky lets himself forget it, reminds himself that Steve won’t want him anymore. Not after this. Not after-

No, he can’t think of it. Can’t let this get to him. Can’t let this-

_FUCK!_

He leans forward, heart beating rapidly in his chest, his face expressing nothing more than a neutral calm when-

“James, no!”

He turns, heart palpitating like gunfire outside a Hydra lab in Azzano, his eyes widening into moons. Loki’s running towards him, arm outstretched, panic etched into every crevice of his body. He stops before he reaches Bucky, holding himself back like he knows getting any closer will be a bad idea. Bucky’s on a knife’s edge, already off balance, able to throw himself down into the rocky sea with just a sway of his body. Loki is very careful to be steady. “James, don’t do this.”

“Why should I?” He chokes out, tears brimming in his eyes, none spilling, just filling - filling until he can’t fucking see anymore. Until he can’t-

Can’t-

God, he can’t do this.

But he will. He has to. For Steve. Steve needs this from him. Steve needs someone to pay for both their sins. Bucky will die in the name of Steve and will atone for the sins of super soldiers. He will atone for the sins of two men who started off so innocent and turned to blood and gore. Turned to violence as solutions to their problems. Who twisted good into bad. Who twisted bad in into good.

Who-

Who-

He isn’t sure anymore. Because he can’t even be sure of who he is. He is three men, maybe more, in one body, trapped in his head, trying to ignore the screams of impulses from the other bodies whenever he lets himself go. He clings for power because he is the least powerful of the three.

He is Bucky Barnes: weak, less than a man, a man that will atone for his sins.

He is not the Soldier, who kills in cold blood. But he will atone for the Soldier’s sins.

He is not Sascha, who can’t tell the difference between violence and kindness. But he will atone for his behaviour.

He is Bucky Barnes: a man who wishes to die like a martyr but knows he will die like a coward.

“Just wait. Please James. Just…don’t do this. I can’t-“ Loki chokes, refusing to let the words out but then he realises…James knows. He _knows_. He’s seen inside Loki’s head and he may have pushed it to one side, he may have told Loki that he’s forgotten it all, he knows a past like his does not go forgotten in one’s head. “I can’t watch another person die. I can’t see that. Not someone who doesn’t deserve it. Don’t do what I did. Please. It’s not worth it.”

Bucky is stunned, his feet reaching for land before he even knows it. But his body is still imbalanced, still leaning towards the crashing waves, still wanting to just…

fall.

Again.

He always falls, down into the pits of hell where he can be punished for the atrocities that he has committed.

Atonement, he promises himself.

It’s atonement.

“It will be.”

“It won’t!” Loki shouts, desperation encasing himself. He can’t watch this-

He can’t fucking…

He can’t-

“James, please. Wait for Steve. Imagine what I will have to tell him. How do I tell him his best friend threw himself of a cliff. How do I tell a man that?!” Loki panics when he sees Bucky lean further, like the anger and flames in Loki’s eyes is only pushing him further. With a deep breath, and a soulless shudder to control his emotions, he continues. “I don’t want to tell a man that his friend died for nothing,” he reports calmly. “He’s awake, James, come with me. Speak to him.”

“I can’t.”

“You can!” Loki argues, frustrated. “You can!” He repeats. “Please, come with me,” he begs, hand outstretched. “For me,” he continues, trying anything. “You’ve seen inside my head. You know everything about me. And if you want to die then so be it but not now. Not when I’m here. Because if you die here, I’m going to end up dying too. You know how far I am from going back to how I was,” Loki pushes, his voice edging on insane, holding his fingers up less than an inch apart. “This close! This. Close. James, just come with me. Talk to Steve. Don’t do this to me.”

“Don’t blackmail me, Loki. That means you already have gone back to how you were.” Loki blanches, betrayal in his eyes. “I’m not going to talk to Steve because he’ll stop me because of how he feels. He won’t be reasonable in his judgments. You are Loki. Now think about it. Think about what I’ve done. Do I deserve to live?”

“Yes,” Loki says with unforgiving surety. “Because if you should die for what you’ve done, what should happen to me? I’ve lived a darker life than you have, mortal. I am old where you are young. I have committed a thousand more atrocities, taken a thousand more lives. But I’m here, aren’t I? I’m living, aren’t I? You don’t think I should die, do you? Do you?”

“You’re a god,” Bucky argues, “you deal in lives. I don’t.”

“Do I? What gives me that right? Even just a mere few years ago, I would have thought you were right. Maybe I still do. But I’m learning, and you have to as well. If you die, I deserve to die too and I’m not willing to face that yet. I’m finally learn to get something from life that isn’t wreaking havoc. Let me believe I’m not a monster.”

Bucky falters, his leg almost spasming inwards, but he stays unbalanced, treading on a tightrope. “I have too, Loki. Stop making this about you. This is about me.”

“I’m making it about me because the same applies to you!”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Do you have any proof of that.”

“I’m sure if I thought hard enough I would,” Bucky spits. Loki is fuming, ready to almost fucking push him off the cliff and be done with that, that familiar burning rage bubbling to the surface like fire ready to spill out of pores. He’s just so fucking-

“Bucky.” Loki releases his fists at the familiar voice. “Don’t.” It’s like the words out his mouth are the only ones that mean anything. In an instant, Bucky is a metre from the cliff edge, watching it like a flame wall has bent around its edge.

“Don’t, Steve,” but he already sounds like he’s given up.

“Come here. We’ll talk about this.”

“I’ve done enough talking,” Bucky argues, adamantly facing the sea front, ignoring the burning stares of two pairs of eyes in his back.

“Not with me, you haven’t. And I’m not supposed to be off bed rest yet so come with me.” Loki knows that Steve doesn’t care one bit about having any ‘bed rest’, him being here has made that clear enough, but if it’s breaking down a layer of stubbornness from Bucky’s thick facade, he’ll allow it.

“Okay,” Bucky breathes, turning around, eyes ringed red, pain scratched into his unshaven face. “Okay, I’ll come.” He follows Steve into the tent, body hunched, as Loki remains on the clifftops. For once, he curses the cliffs. For once, he wishes that many less things were high and mighty.

For once, he wishes that it could be _him_ who is actually able to save someone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve becomes isolated whilst Bucky and Loki become closer and closer. In the meantime, Loki delves into Bucky's mind and finds a startling conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's been ages since I last updated this (I think) but here's a new update! I'm updating like four other things right now so updates will probably remain slow but I'm getting a lot quicker at editing and proofreading my own stuff so hopefully it won't be long. I'm actually really happy with this update, though, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (Note: from now on, most chapters will be this length. The last 6 chapters were written in a chunk and split up so they ended up shorter than usual.)
> 
> Comments and kudos are hugely appreciated!
> 
> -fouryearslater

A week passes without so much as a word from Steve, Bucky and Loki. As soon as Bucky comes indoors, they are quick to lock the door and crowd him in. Bucky, in a flicker madness, begins to switch between personas like he’s sifting through cards. The Winter Soldier returns, going straight for Loki, then Sascha pushes through and goes straight to shout at Steve in a tirade of Russian, then Bucky returns, who’s quick to hug Steve, tear tracks running down his puffy cheeks. Then another comes - Russian but soft spoken, gentle and disarmingly disconnected from reality - and another - Brooklyn, the old Bucky, the _old_ one. Steve cries. Bucky - or James, for ease of reference - is quick to throw his arm around Steve’s shoulder and shrug off the whole event. “I’m insane, Steve, what did you expect?” His lips quirk up a fraction. “Now, how about we continue like usual?”

Except that doesn’t work.

Because Bucky changes again.

They meet Jamie - a childlike rendition of James: forceful, stoic but unbelievably naive. They meet Soldier: a serious-eyed American with the intensity of Sascha but ready to crack a few jokes to ease the tension. And, although there is a thousand other minor variations of already met ones, they meet Buchanan: solemn, Brooklyn, reflective, not dissimilar to the Bucky that Steve had found in Bucharest, just before everything had fallen apart with Tony.

It’s beginning to become difficult to tell the personas apart. Bucky seems to know the difference fairly well, any named ones easily identifying themselves as they switch, but Steve is slow to catch on and Loki, although he can easily remember each one, doesn’t have the empathetic traits that make it so much more distinct for Steve.

So, they fumble.

After the week passes, Bucky decides he is free to do what he decides, easily leaving Steve in the dust as he drags Loki around with him, flickering slightly between personas without so much as a flinch. Luckily, for the most part, the Soldier (not to be mixed up with ‘Soldier’) stays out of their way or, at the least, Bucky is quick to incapacitate himself if he knows he’s coming. He can always feel it - the creeping sensation, like numbness is spreading in his blood, assimilating into every nook and cranny of his body. Bucky likes to stick around as just Bucky but Loki can see the mellow, solemn version of his previous perky persona which makes him almost indistinguishable from James: the only outstanding difference is in stoicism.

In all this time, Steve begins to fade into the background. In his stoic melancholy, Steve begins to follow Thor on his trips, ever the failed diplomat. He tries to control his temper but the rage bubbling beneath the surface explodes on occasion and his indignation has Thor persuading him into sticking New Asgard help, forcing him to volunteer with the troop, mostly made up of soldiers and masons, that are part of the building process. Loki still makes an effort to speak to him but without the buffer of Bucky, conversation is stilted and painful. So, soon enough, out of both selfishness and selflessness, Loki fades away from Steve too.

It’s on a cold, wet day around four weeks since Bucky chose to step away from those cliffs that Loki tries to intervene. “Bucky?”

“James.” Loki sighs, that will only make this more difficult.

“James,” Loki repeats, “can we talk about Steve?” The man turns suddenly, eyebrows furrowed, the dark shadows of Loki’s cottage dawning over him: with building work yet to be finished, Loki has not yet been able to properly furnish and light the cottage properly yet, leaving it tasteless and dark. Not his yet, not really. “Why?” He asks, like the question really does muddle him.

“I think…” Loki pauses, frowns and looks back up, trying his damn hardest to be honest. “Do you think it’s fair to draw away from Steve like this?”

“Like what?” James argue defensively.

“You haven’t talked to him in weeks. He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” James replies with certainty, “he is.”

“So why draw away like this? He looks miserable and I think it mustn’t be for any reason but you.”

“And who are you to choose what I do? I’m doing what I think is right, even if I normally get something that simple so fucking wrong. I’ve accepted that by now. I do what’s best for Steve, always. And this is.”

“How can you really believe that?” Loki asks incredulously.

“How can you believe I’m good for him? I’ve seen into your mind, Loki, don’t forget that. I know what’s in that head a’ yours. It ain’t pretty and neither is mine. Steve…Steve, no matter what he’s seen, is pure. Of sin, or wrong, or whatever you want to call it. I’m like the devil coming to tarnish his fucking heart. I’m better off away.”

“You really believe that?”

“As much as you believe that about yourself, yes.” Loki flinches, his emotions escaping inwards as he flees into neutrality.

“I’m not involved in this. This is about you, James, not me.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Loki sighs and steps forward, hand outstretched as he reaches for James’ shoulder, mimicking a motion he’s seen the man himself do before: a comfort, he believes. “James, I am the god of mischief, I am no role model. I may be attempting change but that does not mean I am anywhere near that yet. No radical change is going to come about in months, maybe even years. But you, James, you don’t have to make that change. Hydra took your mind from you but now you have it back. You don’t need to change, simply to reclaim yourself. And Steve must be apart of that is he not?”

"Don’t assume-“

“Is he not?” Loki steps closer, noticing the wide panic in James’ eyes, trying not to loom but rather comfort. Loki’s nose is almost brushing James’ when he whispers. “Steve is apart of you, James-“

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Loki smiles, for it’ll make his job a lot easier. “Steve is one of the most crucial pieces of you, no matter how much you like it. People have an effect on you. You’ve seen in my head, you’ve seen how much of myself relies on Thor, for good or for bad. We are interconnected through time and family, just as you and Steve are connected through time and friendship: an arguably stronger type of connection. Don’t give up on him yet.”

“I can’t. I…I love him but it’s never going to be enough. He’s _innocent_.”

“You keep saying that yet you have no real proof.”

“He stands for justice-”

“And you are just, if you let yourself be.”

“Leave it, Loki,” Bucky sighs, taking a step backwards, running a hand through his mangled hair. Loki’s shoulders sag but he mutters a mute “for now” before escaping to the other side of the room. He flickers his eyes back to Bucky, watching carefully for different signs in his body language. “Are you okay, Bucky? Really?” Loki tests, trying to fall into the realms of sincerity when he feels himself falling into an abyss.

“You don’t have to do that, Loki?”

“I am not doing anything.”

Bucky turns, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Of course you are. As you’ve said, change takes time, and you asking how I am? I don’t think you’ve reached that stage yet.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t care about the answer.”

“I know, Loki, I know. I just don’t think you’re ready to hear the answer.”

*

Days fall into weeks and time collapses in on itself for Loki as New Asgard is erected: he can feel the eons shift slowly onwards whilst also feeling like time is flying past him. Loki is busy with planning work, trying to fit a flood of people he had not accounted for into the capacity of the city. Surprisingly, it is not only Asgardians who would like to live in the city. People from all over the globe are looking for visas in and it has become Heimdall’s job to lead the team that will decide whether they can or not. Thor had already declared he would take everyone but it took a chastising from Loki for him to take his words back; it was an awful and dangerous plan, not to say unmanageable and simply asking for crime rate to soar. And, unfortunately, due to their treaty with Norway, their ways of punishment have all but been shot down. Execution is no longer allowed, nor is violence; the judicial system will simply have to suffice with prison sentences and something called ‘community service’, which Loki thinks is a rather futile activity but Steve has assured him that it is helpful in rehabilitation and the aid of a community.

It was some of the only words Steve has said to him recently.

Bucky continues to fly between personalities and places like a gazelle with a lion on their tail. Although, predominantly, he remains somewhere as either James or Bucky, other personalities come out to play on occasion. Today, though, is a day that Loki does not think he can cope: Jamie arrives. Jamie is sweet, if not a little disconcerting, but has a major character flaw that Loki has not yet had time to fix.

He wants Steve.

In maybe the simplest version of the verb. Steve is his other half: his best friend, his constant companion, his sidekick. Loki tries to distract him, tries to wait for Bucky’s return. He knows none of the other personas want Steve so he stops Jamie from trying but it’s near impossible when his blue eyes go wide and begin to fill with tears.

“Where’s Stevie?” He whispers, shoulders beginning to shake. “I’m scared. Where’s Stevie?” Loki fumbles around the room as Bucky curls into foetal position by the wall, trying to hide his sobs with his fist. Tripping over his tongue, Loki starts chanting “he’s away, Jamie, but he’ll be back. Promise. He’s coming back to you. He misses you so much. He’ll be back.”

“He’ll be back.”

“He’ll be back.”

“He’ll be back.”

Loki keeps saying it until his throat goes dry and Jamie’s shaking stops. “Is he really coming back?”

“Of course, Jamie. He’s never far away.”

“Okay,” he whispers shakily and closes his eyes as if to hide from the pain. Which never ends well. Fuc-

“Soldat?” Loki asks, recognising the painfully disconnected mask over Bucky’s face, hoping that the Winter Soldier has not come out to kill. Soldat is the easiest one to fall into, Bucky claims. Soldat is everything Hydra conditioned without the violence: Russian, disconnected, gullible. He still has traits of Bucky: soft-spoken (though that only tends to appear when either Steve was ill or Bucky’s feeling shy), gentle and stoic. Loki begins to shake himself, trying to hide it by clutching the fabric of his trousers. Times like these scare him, times when Bucky can’t control who he is and begins sifting through them like doing the American shuffle.

“Ready to comply,” he responds, in perfect Russian. Loki winces but takes on his position as handler and coaxes Bucky into standing and sitting on the bed, back straight, glazed eyes staring directly ahead. “Mission report,” he orders, attempting to gage the situation.

“Awaiting orders.”

“What do you do before orders are given?”

“Wait.”

“What would you like to do whilst you wait?” Loki tries, to no avail.

“Nothing.”

“Okay, Buck, we will wait.” Loki carefully places himself beside Soldat and awkwardly shuffles until the glazing fades, almost an hour later, and Buchanan takes his place. Still on edge, still worried about the flickering lights of Bucky’s personas, Loki doesn’t move, waiting for Buchanan to make the first move.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks first.

Loki fumbles, words not forefront, as they never are with Bucky, “no, no!” He assures. “You’ve been waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“For orders.”

“Oh,” he sighs despairingly, back slumping from its perfect line into a Quasimodo-esque curl. “Who was I?”

“Soldat. Not Winter, it’s okay.”

Buchanan looks at Loki like he’s crazy. “It’s not okay; I could have been dangerous. Soldat may not be Winter but he’s not any safer.”

“You underestimate your control. He’s gentle, just disconnected. He won’t harm anyone unless he’s told to.”

“Exactly, he’s not safe, all it takes is one person to order him and then he becomes Winter. Then, we’re all doomed.”

“You’re wrong.”

“If that’s what ya believe then so be it.”

Loki sighs, reluctantly placing an arm around Buchanan’s shoulders, jarred by the unnatural action. “It is what I believe.”

“Then so be it,” Buchanan replies, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. The day continues and personas continue to flicker. James returns, sighing but evidently less downtrodden than Buchanan. Then Bucky comes and tries to shed light on the situation, laughing at Loki’s arm around his shoulders. “You don’t have to, Loki, I know it’s not the way you show affection.” He smiles, shrugs the shoulder off but continues to look at Loki like a mere arm isn’t needed to represent the affection Loki has for Bucky.

It scares him.

Because fuck-

Well,

That’s dangerous territory.

Soldier makes a very short appearance, asking for his orders before immediately cracking a joke at Loki’s silence, quickly slipping into Sascha, who neither asks for orders nor jokes. The cycle falls back onto Bucky and by nightfall, Loki is almost certain that the madness for the day will stop.

“Bucky, this isn’t safe anymore. You shouldn’t be…switching this much. Before it was at least a day before you change, now it can be seconds. Something is wrong.”

Bucky pauses, trying to pull out a smile and a joke but falling short. “Maybe. Since…since the cliff, things haven’t been the same.”

Loki stares at him, worry clouding his thoughts when he blurts, “I could help.” It’s a stupid idea, a stupid plan and a stupid thing to say. Bucky’s eyes light up and Loki knows he’s fucked up - severely. “Really?! What can you do?”

“I could…I could look into your mind and try and…I’m not sure, I’d have to look but it is not the first time I’ve had to delve into someone’s mind.”

Bucky’s face falls. “It’s not the first time with me either.”

“No, it’s not. But this time-“

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not doing this again. I don’t even care about you messing with my head but you know what happened last time.”

“What?”

Bucky lets out a short, sharp laugh before sobering. “I saw into _your_ mind, Loki. Have you forgotten? You looked ready to kill me for it. I don’t want to do that again. You don’t deserve that.” Loki fumbles yet again. (Bucky, he laments, what is it about you that makes me lose control?). It wasn’t what he was expecting. He knew the idea was stupid, for a multitude of reasons but none of them had involved _him_.

Is this what it’s like to lose your selfishness.

No, it can’t be. It’s been months; things don’t change that-

…quickly.

Or maybe they do. Why is Loki still pushing it away? He _can_ change, even in a mere few months. Morals do it, all the time, and the only thing stopping Loki is his denial that it is possible. Is he scared?

Probably. Fear has always held him back. Fear of rejection, of loss, of death. But now, he won’t let it control him. He won’t. He _won’t_. He’ll change. So, rather than allowing Bucky his way, he pushes. “Bucky, this isn’t about me, this is what you need. Let me. Please.” Bucky’s eyes widened, like he’s just as surprised himself. “Loki, you don’t have t-“

“Bucky,” Loki chastises, “you’ve already seen into my mind, nothing more will harm you. And anyway, it will only come to that in dire circumstances. In times like these, it’s a lot easier. I was working with Winter last time and his mind…his mind is darkness. Yours…yours has light. Flickering, yes, unstable, very, but it’s there. And I want to help that become stable. It’s time to use my magic for good.”

Bucky smiles. “I’m proud of you.”

“What?” _Stop fumbling!_

“I’m proud of you,” he repeats. “You really have made the changes you vowed to make.” Loki smiles gently at himself, head bowed modestly. “Thank you,” he whispers, feeling like the words barely come out at all. “Now, let’s get away from all that silly sentimentality and look in your mind.”

“Are you ready?”

“Always.”

Loki’s fingers tremble as he reaches out but he keeps his face grave as he delves into the pandemonium of Bucky’s mind. Immediately, he can catch the flickering light but it’s nothing like he expected. In the black abyss of Bucky’s mind, ten figures stand. One is brighter than the rest - Bucky, he notes - long hair tied back, face serious but present.

It’s evident enough that it’s is his present persona but there’s so many. More, he thinks, than even Steve and he have names for. It seems impossible; it certainly hasn’t been recorded in human psychology essays - not that he’s found yet, anyway. He takes a more in depth look at the rest of the them. Next to Bucky is Buchanan, the closest to Bucky in many ways. Steve says - although not recently - that it’s how Bucky often was when Steve first found him: solemn but undeniably…him. Loki had asked then if that just made it a mood rather than a persona but Steve says there were noticeable differences. Loki still fails to spot them, all of them anyway, but Steve has known the man longer and Loki trusts his judgment. But now, in his mind, Loki thinks he can see the slight differences. Whilst Bucky is dressed plainly - just a t-shirt and jeans - Buchanan is layered, like he’s trying to hide something. His mouth is more downturned and his hair hangs further over his face, shadowing the features that Loki has become so accustomed to seeing. It’s like Bucky’s shrouded in a shadow of his own doubt and self-consciousness: it’s then that Loki sees it. Bucky is like he is because he is confident. At times, it may be false, an impenetrable veneer, but it’s there. Buchanan, on the other hand, has lost all of that. He’s the victim of brainwashing and torture, a man just searching for what he wants to be with no thought as to who he actually is. Loki’s chest constricts and he quickly turns to the next persona: James. It’s a reasonable step. James, as Steve has informed him, is most like the 40s Bucky. Whilst Bucky is too jolly to be his old self, overcompensating his self-doubt with the man he presumes he was, James is a more realistic rendition. He smiles often and without doubt but he still remains stoic, hiding behind his confidence in order to impress maidens and the like. James is the ideal 40s man, or so Loki has been told, and the image in Bucky’s mind only solidifies the idea. He has slicked back hair, a well-fitted suit and is smirking like he’s never stopped flirting for a moment of his life. But, you can still see the kindness in his eyes; not just anyone would see someone as small as Steve and protect them rather than punch them in a time like the Great Depression. He stood up against the bullies as much as Steve did; his motives were just somewhere else, always had been.

Unable to bear the weight of loss he feels when looking at James, he turns again and is met by Soldat. Loki, at first, thinks that it doesn’t seem quite right to put him there. He’s a breed of a very different side of Bucky, he’s closer to the Winter Soldier than he is James Buchanan Barnes. A lot closer. But as he stares, it starts to make sense. Whilst Soldat is a form of the Soldier, he is probably the kindest version. He is the version that clings onto Bucky like a lifeline. He is the soldier that just couldn’t let go of what he used to be, the one that used to cry out Steve’s name on the table just to believe that one day he might be rescued, the one that relied on disassociation to get through the night. As Loki stares, these images come to life and he has to blink rapidly just to throw himself out of the loop. He doesn’t want to delve into Bucky’s memories, not yet. But, every now and then, he gets a glimpse that he just can’t erase. As he looks, the clothes suddenly become distractingly obvious: rags, barely clinging to his body, singed like they’ve withstood his torture too. Because they have. Oh god they have. Before he can be sick (which will only drag him out of Bucky’s mind), he turns to the next person, who’s staring him dead in the eye like that’s what he’s been told to do and he doesn’t realise it’s unsettling. Or maybe he does; maybe that’s the point. It’s Sascha, dressed from head to toe in combat gear. But not the kevlar he fought Steve in, this isn’t the same soldier as the hellicarrier. This is a Bucky that trained peo-

A flash of red hair.

The crack of breaking bone.

A girl aiming a gun up to his temple.

The _Red Room_. Of course. Natalia and Bucky have always had a dubious relationship (Loki doesn’t know how he knows this but he can only guess that delving into Bucky’s mind is starting to take a toll, he needs to be quicker) and it’s not surprising that he trained her at some point in his history. Loki, though, isn’t sure if these memories are active or passive so he purposefully ignores them and turns to the next person. Or two people.

The Winter Soldier stands tall, looking down at the what’s below him with the blank void that only a complete removal of one’s humanity can do. Even in the complete darkness of Bucky’s mind, he still casts a shadow over his counter-part. The black silhouette he casts shrouds a small figure, curled up in a foetal position, head peeking out from beneath his knees: Jamie. Whilst the Winter Soldier is in his full kevlar - mask and goggles included (though Loki, it is a mind after all, can see through them) - Jamie is in an oversized shirt than barely falls over his knees. He’s not moving but Loki can read the fear on his face: unmistakeable. For a second he can’t see the link, can’t see why Jamie is with him until…

Of course.

Loki can see it now, see the child screaming from within the darkness. Crying for anyone: his ma, Steve, _Steve!_. He hears the scream with infallible clarity, sending him reeling backwards. The Winter Soldier is nothing more than a blank canvas, Jamie is what is stuck inside. Jamie is the thing that keeps the Winter Soldier from pulling the trigger on a _little five year old girl in Afghanistan. She’s clutching at a teddy bear, looking up at him through tear-soaked eyes._

Tearing his eyes away, Loki’s gaze travels to the next one. Dressed entirely the same as the Winter Soldier, bar the mask and goggles, the man stares at him, dead everywhere but the eyes. Loki has never seen him before but he looks so…terrified. He looks at Loki like he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get what’s going on-

_You’re name is James Buchanan Barnes.”_

_SHUT UP!_

Loki flinches but too quickly, another memory appears.

_”You’re my friend.”_

_You’re my mission.”_

Loki thinks it’s finally over, thinks the screaming in his mind, the white noise is over when-

_”I’m with you…to the end of the line.”_

Loki can _feel_ the fear and pain and restraint and anger and confusion. He can feel it all. He doesn’t know what to do but his eyes won’t move, they’re caught on the icy grey of the man’s eyes. He can’t- he can’t-

His eyes dart to the next one. Soldier. One that has a name, at least. One that only makes sense, though, when looking at the two surrounding him. They’ve always thought of Soldier as the American equivalent to Sascha but it’s become evident now that that’s not quite the case. Standing next to him is Bucky, dressed from head to toe in his military outfit from 1945 (“sometimes I think you like getting punched”), looking cocky and confident, the light in his eyes a sign of youth. This is the soldier before he went to war. This is the last time Bucky was ever young. And suddenly the Soldier is clear. Dressed in what is similar to the man between him and Bucky, in a looser more uncaring way, he stands tiredly, face fallen, the light gone from his eyes. This is the man who fought in Earth’s second World War. This is the man who saw men die, often as his own hands. This is the man who finally lost his youth.

And then Loki realises, eyes trailing around as he looks at the entire circle that, why he does not recognise two of them: these are not personas that Bucky has, they are simply his past. Each one has a slot in time, each one has grown from the last. They are all Bucky Barnes. They are all there. They can’t be gotten rid of, simply overcome. Bucky is just flickering because he’s lost in where he is in time. Bucky is the most prevalent persona because that’s who he’s so desperate to be. But it isn’t who he _is_. His body is simply trying to return him to a state in which he was him, no matter how much that was manipulated into him. He can’t pretend any longer that he’s happy and smiling and a false rendition of who he used to be. He needs to let himself be _him_. Loki can see it now, how Bucky clutches so hard to these fabricated personas that are extrapolated from falsified memories. Memory, like many others thing, is not to be trusted. It tricks you, it bends the truth. An event once loved, with a single thought, can become one that is hated. A personality that used to be viewed as flirtatious can become predatory. Bucky is perusing the personas that his mind is providing him but they are twisted. He doesn’t have the context to understand them nor the objectivity that allows them to be realistic. And, above all that, Loki can see, just looking around the circle, how much Steve is affecting him. Now, even after weeks apart, Steve is silently persuading Bucky’s unconscious decisions. These personas are moulded after Steve’s image: from stories and tales and reenactments. These are not just Bucky’s memories, these are Steve’s. Steve is in Bucky. Together, they are more than they are apart.

He sees himself in that - in some deluded, suffering way - he thinks with painful realisation. He sees all those past selves that he’s moulded himself into for Thor, or his mother, or Odin. He sees himself pretending to be the good brother he once was for Thor. He sees his skin tarnished by blue, covered by a pale pink to be what Odin wanted him to be. He sees the mischievous god that won’t relent in his tricks for fear of people seeing the vulnerability that is behind it to spite his own mother, who did nothing but care.

Suddenly, Loki is thrown out of Bucky’s mind, left reeling and gasping as light seeps through his shut eyelids. “Loki?” Someone whispers. “Loki!” They hiss louder. Slowly, he lets his eyelids flutter open and winces at the harsh rays in his eyes. “Loki, are you okay? Did you find anything.”

Loki looks up, turquoise eyes piercingly wide. “Yes. I found the problem,” he murmurs, his stare vacant.

“Loki, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Just…” he stares down at his hands, versions of Bucky flashing in his mind. “I just feel like I may have found something out about myself too.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Loki are getting closer and closer, Steve feels more abandoned than ever, and Bucky attempts to find out who he really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Got this update out quite soon. Going on holiday tomorrow so won't be able to update. Thank you so much for the support so far. Kudos and comments are hugely appreciated.
> 
> -fouryearslater

Loki stares fearfully at his hands, tremors like poison in his veins. Bucky stares and tries to reach forwards but clutches his hand back before it can meet Loki’s skin. “What is it? It is it bad?”

Reluctantly, he shakes his head. “It is an easy diagnosis. I am unsure about whether it will have an easy solution.”

“Stop playing with words, Loki,” Bucky sighs, “tell me what you saw.”

Loki stares blankly at the wall, his heart thudding ruefully in his chest. “You are not suffering from a human condition,” Loki answers. “These ‘personas’ we have given you…they are not personas at all. You have not been changing personalities but time. You are reverting back to people you once were because you do not know who you are now.”

“So…I-” Bucky stops; he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say.

“You have to find out who you are, Bucky. You have to remember the past but you cannot trap yourself in it. You are already seeing the consequences.”

“But…I don’t know who I am. I am them; they are me. What else can I be?”

“Like I said, there is no easy solution.”

Bucky sighs. “You have a similar problem, don’t you?”

Loki reels back but carefully masks it as a flinch. “What do you mean?”

“This is why you’re upset. I saw inside your head, in case you don’t remember,” Bucky tries to joke - it falls flat. “I saw everyone you try to be. But none of them fit, do they?”

“And neither do yours,” Loki tries to deflect.

Bucky lets him, heaving in air like he’s drowning. “I have to admit, I think I’m too scared of who I might be to actually look for it,” Bucky admits. “Steve used to define me so much but with this mess in my head, it’s not safe for him to be around me. But without him, I don’t know what I can be.”

“Your life should not rely on another. Accept that you have people who care about you but don’t become what they want. It will only lead to heartbreak.” Bucky looks at Loki carefully from the corner of his eyes, empathy clouding his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it will. But I don’t think I have many people who care about me anyway.”

Loki swallows, tries to muster up the bravery to spew out the words he wants to. He turns, tremors calm but unfaltering. “I care about you,” he tries; the words don’t sound quite right on his tongue but they sound sure in his mind, sure enough that even if his silver tongue fails him then he won’t feel the need to retract the words.

Bucky just stares, fear clutching at his heart, almost forcing it into cardiac arrest. He has no words. He can’t say “you do?”, he can’t say “I know, he can’t even say “I care about you too”. Each one has their flaws and fallibility; Bucky can’t take the risk, not with Loki. “Thank you,” he whispers instead. It’s the best he can do; it doesn’t mean much to Bucky but to a man who has heard anything but praise in his life, it brings a small smile.

“There is nothing to thank.”

They sit quietly after that. At some point, Bucky shifts and goes to sit on Loki’s leather recliner, a small glimpse of comfort in an otherwise modern infused living area. Loki follows but instead seats himself on the soft looking but inevitably rock-hard sofa and stares mercurially at the wall. Bucky, similarly, loses himself to his mind and mulls over Loki’s words.

Himself? What is ‘himself’? It’s not Bucky, that’s too forced. No scrap that, it’s not any of those people he was pretending to be. He needed to give that a fucking break. He’s been so lost in it that he has begun to believe it; it was stupid of him. Now he’s free but without a tether; he floats emptily around his mind. Who is he?

Who the hell is James Buchanan Barnes?

He sighs. He doesn’t even know where to begin. He sits calmly, stewing in his confusion, unable to free himself from the bounds of it.

Loki, on the other hand, flickers between emotions like he plays with his magic: unpredictably, playfully and almost manically. He begins on hope but it soon gives way to guilt which only segues into pain and then fear, until he sits resolutely on regret. Regret for his past, for what he’s wasted, for the people he’s lost.

Bucky’s eyes dart to Loki and opens his mouth carefully. “Who are you really, Loki?”

Loki’s eyes snap to Bucky as he lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’ve seen inside my head. Don’t you know?”

“No, that’s exactly it. I saw inside your mind - but, bear in mind, not all of it. But still, I didn’t see you. I was like I couldn’t find it. I think I know what that feels like now.”

“To not know yourself?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, holding Loki’s gaze.

“I guess we will both start afresh, then. I am sick of acting, are you not?”

“Yeah, getting a bit too boring for my tastes.”

Loki smirks. “I am the God of Mischief, I do not do boring.”

“Then let’s get going.”

Loki may still be trapped in the cages of regret but at least he knows, inside those bars with him is a man that - with their combined strength - can free them both. He may have lost too much of his life to his cage but that doesn’t mean he has to lose any more.

*

Steve sits on the clifftops and watches the sloshing waves. Loki’s not here, much to his chagrin; it was where he expected to find him, it was the only reason he had come out here in the first place. Looking out, he trembles as the Winter air bites at his skin. Snow will probably start falling soon, he thinks, staring at the dusty clouds in the sky. Bucky used to love snow: he was like a child whenever the glistening snow flakes would begin to pour into his open palm. Steve used to shiver and sniff whilst Bucky squealed in delight and tumbled around in the snow when no one was looking. He’d apologise profusely for leaving Steve out but Steve didn’t mind, he liked watching his friend carefree; he didn’t get that enough, not with the burden of Steve on his shoulders. The memory flitters away and leaves Steve with only a gaping hole in his chest. Because now, if snow does fall, Steve won’t get to see the childish grin on Bucky’s face. Even if Bucky fucking _was_ here, he probably wouldn’t see it. Bucky’s a changed man now. Bucky may smile; many of his other ‘selves’ do not.

He waits longer as wind batters the peeling skin of his cheeks, super soldier healing be damned. Loki doesn’t make an appearance, though. Steve gives in when the sun begins to sink below the horizon, his stubbornness puttering out alongside the light. “I miss you, Buck,” he thinks, almost whispering it like a prayer, hoping that wishing on a passing sun might bring good luck with the new day. He doesn’t know where he learnt the superstition but it has stayed with him nonetheless. He thinks it’s beautiful; he likes the symbolism, out with the old day and with it a wish to be fulfilled within the new one.

Steve sighs and clambers to his feet, desperately looking for the sight of Loki’s figure in the distance. Anxiety thrums under his skin; Loki is always here in the evening, watching the waves. Maybe it’s because it’s Winter; maybe it’s because he’s occupied. Nevertheless, the change in routine unsettles Steve.

A lot has been unsettling Steve recently.

It is the reason he had wanted to see Loki in the first place. He knows Bucky is ignoring him and maybe that is what is most deeply unsettling about the whole situation. No matter what, in the end, Bucky would always be by his side. Now, Bucky is away, with a _new_ friend, a _new_ companion and someone _new_ to rely on. Steve is by himself.

The first time he had felt this feeling was in the hospital after being dragged out the Potomac. He had felt it then and promised himself he would never let himself feel it ever again. Yet here he is. He can’t fight for Bucky because he can’t even see him. He can’t work through Loki because Loki, for some god forsaken reason, has not appeared either.

And that brings him onto the next point. Even if Bucky is gone, why is Loki too? Steve, despite his best efforts, does not trust Loki: it’s a fact and one that is unlikely to change. But, that does not mean that he doesn’t want to speak to Loki. He won’t admit it aloud (hell, he won’t admit it in his head) but there’s been this gnawing anxiety since Loki began to pull away to.

He has a name for it. He doesn’t want to say it but he has it.

Loneliness.

He may not trust Loki, nor like him, nor find solace in him but without him, Steve is irrevocably, unconditionally alone. Thor has already ‘suggested’ that Steve not play the part of a diplomat. Heimdall has already ‘advised’ that Steve put his efforts on something other than their task as the Keepers of the Borders. He has been ‘told’ that he is no help in the building work because he lacks the patience to build something beautiful.

Steve is - was - an artist: he doesn’t know how he survived the crushing blow.

Steve has no one left. Sam tries to speak to him every now and then but his efforts are futile. One man caring isn’t enough when Steve used to have the whole world. He’d been Captain America: their saviour and their hero. Now, he is Nomad: a criminal and a madman. And now Nomad, in complete opposition to his name, is alone.

Steve just wants to talk to someone and who better than a man who has suffered loneliness all his life: Loki Laufeyson.

But even that hasn’t gone to fucking plan. He’s alone, the cliffs fading slowly into the background, as he traipses back to his new residence. He thinks, for the first time since he went on the run, that he actually has a home. He doesn’t much care for it; it’s blander than his SHIELD apartment, which was a mismatch of beiges that were oddly reminiscent of _absolutely nothing_ , despite what SHIELD thought. Now, despite the beauty of the small hut - almost cottage like in structure, tucked away on the edge of Bifrost, where he’s surrounded by looming trees and racing shadows - he feels little to nothing when he looks at it. Inside, it’s split into three rooms. A main room, a bedroom and a bathroom. Despite this, it’s still large. The main room is probably ten times the size of his apartment back in the 30s and is possibly, if only slightly bigger, than the entirety of his SHIELD apartment. Although, the space is nothing to boast about. Whilst most people would fill the space with personal items or at least furniture, Steve’s simply has a sofa and a coffee table, a ratty fridge in the corner with a small stove and a few counters. There are no rugs, paintings or decorations; there is no colour, interest of personality. Everything is in some shade of beige. And, worst of all, Steve is too scared to even put a drawing up in some vague attempt to find a solution.

He hasn’t quite addressed the problem looming over him. As it keeps being said, he is still a _criminal_. Whilst Sam and Natasha are helping with negotiations, they can’t show their faces because Steve made them criminals too. When he first freed them, they’d vowed to keep moving, to not be seen but now…now he’s settling down. He has a house; he has a life he’s failing to build. Bucky, most definitely, seems perfectly content to remain where he is. And without Bucky, Steve doesn’t think he has the strength to keep running.

He’s tired. Really fucking tired.

But, when he looks to the future, he can’t see himself getting any rest. He sees himself dying in battle, or being punished for his crimes and living a life behind bars. He doesn’t see a cottage with his art on the walls and colourful rugs on the floor. He can’t see anyone else in his king sized bed, he can’t see anyone else sharing his palatial bathroom. He sees himself alone, surrounded by brown, staring at a blank wall, empty, until someone gives him another fight.

Steve doesn’t know how to live without a fight anymore.

*

Bucky does not know the steps he needs to take to ‘find himself’ per se. Night has fallen and he’s finally scurried back to his own residence, a terraced building on the beginnings of a road network in Frigga, not too long from Loki or the cliffs: he needs a reminder sometimes, a reminder of what he’s capable of. He crawls up the stairs to the second floor and into his apartment: they had offered Bucky, Steve, Sam and Natasha any residence they could want but Bucky likes the small apartment, it’s easier to protect (though, truly, it just feels cosier). And fuck, Steve, he should have never followed the thought process. He’s lost staring at the door as a barrage of thoughts hit him. In each one, Steve’s once happy - if a little forced - demeanour turns ice cold, as if in Bucky’s absence, he’s finally learnt the truth about Bucky. But that can’t be true. Bucky is finding himself therefore, right now, he is not himself. He keeps telling himself about how much his sins have plagued him but he is not that man anymore.

And fuck, _Steve_.

Still, Bucky refuses to see him. The reasoning no longer matters; this is on principal. Steve doesn’t need his baggage and Bucky certainly doesn’t deserve Steve’s attempts at trying anyway, whether his past is really his or not. He’s been gone long enough now too that to return would only solidify his mistake. If he stays away maybe he can pretend, just maybe, that leaving Steve behind wasn’t the worst decision of his life.

He pushes the door open with a huff and almost immediately collapses onto the sofa. He stares emptily into space and wonders what the hell his life has come to. So much has happened that his mind is still reeling, desperately clawing to catch up. His life had started to simple: just a little boy in Brooklyn who would leave school too early and make a life for himself through manual labour. Then the war had destroyed all of that and he became a soldier, lost and naive in a world of blood and gore: a world of merciless men, a world where he became merciless himself. Then he had died. Yet, even death couldn’t keep him from the torment of merciless men. He became a machine, a weapon and a puppet under the strings of a multitude of organisations, each as bad as the last. Then Steve had saved him and he was left with the fallout of of his personality; for Steve, he kept a brave face on, stopped the flickering of the past from surfacing but then they’d landed in New Asgard, led by a previously dead Phil Coulson, and his whole world had shifted once again. There, he had met Loki and had slowly succumbed to friendship but he’d still been lost.

He had still attacked Steve.

He was in Past’s dirty clutch.

His whole life has been uprooted and his mind remains an unsolved calamity but he knows that fixing that is a long term goal. It’s not something that can happen overnight.

But look at Loki. Look how far he’s come. Bucky smiles, unable to stop the unrelenting force quirking the edges of his lips. Loki _cares_. Fuck, Loki cares. Bucky hadn’t had time to dwell on that but now that he thinks about it, he’s overcome by how significant that is. This is Loki - God of Mischief, Devil in Disguise, Silvertongue - telling Bucky that he cares about him. And Bucky knows how to sniff out bullshit by now, he would have known if Loki was lying. He wasn’t.

Bucky tries to ignore the warm fluttering in his heart. It feels like home, or comfort, or maybe the same as the nostalgia he feels every time Steve tucks himself under Bucky’s arm.

Shaking his head, he picks up a brush from the windowsill and goes to the bathroom mirror to rid himself of the perpetual tangles that knot his slightly too long hair. If it is an attempt to take his mind off of everything, it’s not a very good one. Bucky’s hair routine is almost as thought inducing as standing in the shower for a bit too long. He grits his teeth against the pain as he hits a tangle but it doesn’t remove any of the nagging thoughts in his head nor the burning sensation in his heart.

It’s at that moment that he realised just what dangerous territory he’s in.

Loki, in many people’s minds, is a monster: although that seems a rather frank opinion. Bucky is no different, although some people on Earth are more forgiving of his past. To be together would…

Bucky doesn’t even want to think about it.

Doesn’t want to think about what the world might do when two of the most dangerous men on it decide to pair together.

He doesn’t want to think about the terror in their eyes.

Or their spiteful words.

Or their hateful spirit.

Bucky tries to drown out his thoughts with something happier but happiness always brings him to Steve and-

FUCK!

He drops the brush in the sink and lets out a sob-like breath, clutching the sink bowl, metal slightly cracking the smooth porcelain. He’s sick of this. He’s supposed to be finding out who he is and all that seems to happen is that his memory drags him back into the past.

It’s time for this to stop.

With a blank expression, he settles in his determination and storms into the main room and picks up a stack of A4 paper that, for whatever reason, had come with the house. Picking up a roll of cellotape, he tapes up 24 sheets in a 6x4 grid and flips it over. There, a blank slate. Bucky finds a permanent marker and in the middle, in the largest letters he can muster, writes ‘me’.

This is where he’ll begin.

He encircles the singular word and draws a shooting line off onto the corner of the page and in his scrawling handwriting - antiquated and spiralling - writes “fusses about hair”. That much he knows.

From there, it’s a little harder.

Still, it only takes him half an hour to fill at least a three-quarters of the sheet (although he is writing quite largely). He pins it up on the one of the blank walls and stares at it, his eyes finally glazed over with something that isn’t emptiness. He can’t describe it but it pulls at his heart like he’s both ecstatic and painfully close to crying.

Covering the page is everything that he can think to describe himself. Next to “fusses about hair”, in even bigger handwriting, he has written “likes both cats and dogs”, apparently something that is unusual but he doesn’t care. From there he’s written:

“Super powers - strength, agility…etc.”

“Likes chocolate: a lot.”

“Friends: Loki, Steve?, Sam and Natasha?”

“Gets excited by small things like magic tricks.”

“Space…awesome.”

“Still love jazz.”

“Hobbies: stabbing, watching the ocean, hanging out with Loki.”

“Aspiration: to be normal. Science? - school?”

At the end, in the smallest lettering he could muster, he’s also adds “queer”. It’s not that he’s ashamed, exactly, but it still sits with him uncomfortably. Because it isn’t that he doesn’t like women, he does. He just likes men too. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t give a flying fuck who cares because admittedly, if that was the worst of his sins then his whole life would be a whole lot happier. But there’s something, something that has been instilled in him just by the way he grew up, that makes him want to be disgusted by himself. It festers in the corner and one day, Bucky worries that it might come out.

Bucky takes a step back, trying to ignore that barrage his mind is trying to throw at him, and stares at the list. There. That’s him. It doesn’t matter what’s on there because it’s just him and he’s going to have to accept that. And that, at least, is a start. He feels a wan smile on his lips and lets it stay; he blinks away tears that he’ll never let spill.

Yeah, this is him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki finds out that Steve was waiting and confronts Bucky about the newfound problem.

Loki wanders aimlessly around the grassland, watching the sea with sharpened eyes. He feels something…something off, but he can’t place his finger on it. He looks down, inspecting the grass. Recently trodden on, though that’s not particularly out of the usual. Loki may love this spot but it doesn’t mean that it is his alone. Many of the new inhabitants of New Asgard like to walk along the rocky cliffs too. Loki can claim no right over them, even as a semi-pseudo-king.

Still, maybe it’s the light or maybe there really is something wrong but Loki cannot help but focus on the wrinkled grass. Someone has not just passed through here but paced here, back and forth, flattening the grass until it could no longer bring itself upright. This place, despite the beauty of it, is not one that many people _stop_ at. There’s no bench, no shade and nothing but grass and the view. And yet, someone thought it was worth stopping at.

Maybe, like Loki, they were simply looking for a sense of peace. But still, on the miles-long stretch of cliffs, what is the likelihood that someone decides to stop in the exact same place as Loki?

No. It’s perfectly likely. It’s one of the closest places to town from the seafront.

Something is still wrong.

With a sigh, Loki sits down, looking out at the black sky and the starlit sea before he waves his hand, playing with the glowing green sparks that fly over his fingers, and sets it on the ground. Immediately, he lets himself feel the presences, the things that have passed. Whilst he cannot form a direct link to a single person, he can feel the emotions they left behind: it’s a smell, like a pheromone lingering in the air. He can smell:

Impatience, irritation…loneliness.

Loki recoils as he feels the familiar tingle, breaking himself free from the magic he tries not to use and staring mindlessly at the vista. Steve. Oh god, that’s _Steve_. In every way: the hidden anguish, the burning determination, the festering exhaustion. Suddenly, it feels like his emotions are ever more present, like he can feel the righteousness and indignation and _pain_ flooding through his own veins. He feels the urge to sob but doesn’t let his body give in. Loki has lived more than a thousand years and has dealt with his own pain for just as long. Ever so rarely does he ever have to encounter someone else’s. It tears him apart.

He scrambles to his feet, ripping out strands of grass as he goes and flies back into his cottage, lungs scrambling for breath as they constrict. Oh god, what has he done. No. More importantly, what has Bucky done? Loki needs to fix this and soon. He stops for a moment, trying to process what he’s feeling. Night has already fallen, he thinks decisively, so he’ll take action tomorrow.

He needs to talk to Bucky.

*

Bucky looks at the board with mild interest, his eyes glazing over the words he’s seen a thousand times before. He must have slept here because he doesn’t remember moving but the sun has risen and he can’t remember the hours from about 12 to now.

He’s not quite sure what he’s doing anymore. Staring at the board isn’t doing him any good. He’s figured out the foundations now and looking at them won’t construct the building. He’s found some truths and done nothing with them. But…well…

He picks up a pen, uncaps it and adds:

“Often zones out: thinks too much?”

There. A bit more truthful. He can’t only write the nice things.

He’s shocked out of his comfort zone of staring at the careful zig-zag of the zed when there’s sharp knock at the door. He twists quickly, crouched to fight (like they would knock) before he gracefully pulls himself onto his feet and stalks towards the door. He peers out the peephole, suddenly bitterly resenting the new Asgardian apartments for not having buzzers so he could have checked who it was beforehand, and is taken aback to see Loki standing there.

Loki never comes to the apartment. He much prefers the cliffs. And his cottage. Bucky’s apartment is too small, with too little grandeur. In a panic, Bucky tries to think of a way that he can hide the huge poster on his wall but decides again it, hesitantly opening the door and letting Loki in.

“We need to talk,” Loki commands without preamble, striding inside.

“You’re really working on that…honesty thing, aren’t you?”

Loki doesn’t grace the question with a reply and only continues his spiel. “I’m worried about Steve. Especially when it comes to you.”

“What?” Bucky’s been thrown off his stride.

“Steve. I don’t know. I haven’t actually seen him. But he was waiting, I think, for you. On the cliffs. I think he wants to talk and he deserves that at least.”

“What?” Bucky repeats dumbly.

“Look, Steve is clearly not doing well without you. He…okay, he wasn’t just waiting for you. I tapped into my magic and I…I don’t know how you humans would put it, sensed something. Him, his feelings. Bucky, they worry me.”

Bucky just stares; he can’t quite comprehend what’s being said. It’s all so muddled. The sentences don’t seem to join together. Where had Loki’s mind gone? Steve was…waiting for him?

Goddamn it. Either way, that meant Steve was being a self-sacrificial idiot. “I’m not going to see him. He’s got to move on.”

Loki sighs. “Don’t you think he deserves an explanation at the least? This man is desperate. That can only lead to the worst of scenarios.”

“Why? Because that’s what it did to you? Steve isn’t like you. Steve’s practically a saint in comparison to us. Desperation will only run him in circles.”

“You underestimate his power.”

“Maybe but…I can’t be near him. I’m getting better. But I’m not there yet. I’m learning who I am,” Bucky adds, motioning to the board he had failed to cover up. “He doesn’t need to see that, doesn’t need to see his friend become someone else. And he certainly doesn’t needed to be stained with the blood on my hands.”

“That won’t be how he sees it.”

“Of course not but I’ve never known him as rational.”

“He’s a tactician,” Loki argues, “he must know rationality.”

“Sure but not when it comes to people. He’s a humanitarian. When it comes to concepts, he approaches them with a steady head but as soon as its people, he always fights for what he believes in. He’ll punch the bad guys without a seconds hesitation and he’ll stop at nothing to protect the good guys. It’s why he’s struggling, you know. He doesn’t like not knowing which is which anymore. Why are you suddenly so fixated on this? You didn’t seem to mind as much before.”

Loki wants to take Bucky by his shoulders and shake him. Doesn’t he see?! Steve’s miserable; he has all these issues, ones that even Bucky is highlighting, and Bucky refuses to help him with those. He doesn’t see that he is the one who has to help. He doesn’t _see_ that Steve’s only hope left is his team. They are the only ones he can trust. And now he’s losing one of them.

He’d already lost too many.

But Loki has already lost; he can see that. “I’m only saying what I think is best.” Bucky doesn’t even bother replying, only sighs, and stares at his board. Loki follows his gaze and patiently wades through the small sea of writing.

The board is large. Almost too large, like it’s imposing on Loki just by its very nature. The paper is thick but frail looking, already yellowed at the edges like it’s been fiddled with. The scrawl on it it large and looping - old fashioned yet overly controlled, not the free-flowing script of Loki’s own hand. “What is this?” Loki asks plainly, stepping up to the board and running the coarse material through his hands.

“My board. Everything I’ve figured out so far. It’s on-going but it- it helps, to just see who I am, figure it out. It seems a lot more simple this way.” Loki nods his affirmation and starts to read the messy scrawl with vague interest.

“Space?”

Bucky bows his head, flushing. “As a kid, I was always fascinated by space. Planets, stars, _aliens_.”

Loki laughs, not unkindly, and goes to sit next to Bucky on the sofa. “Well now you’ve met them.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah, don’t think it was exactly what I expected.” He looks at Loki. “But I think it may be better.” It’s Loki’s turn to flush, turning to hide the red on his pale skin. “I don’t think I’m that special.”

“You’re a god, Loki, of course you’re special. Don’t be stupid,” Bucky chastises. “But you’re not the classic alien I grew up with with green skin and huge eyes. You’re…you.”

“I do have blue skin. Zehoberei have green skin. It’s not unheard of.”

“Yes but you’re all humanoid. And your skin is so pale it might as well be blue like this too,” Bucky teases, trying not to press too hard. He understands the discomfort of the issue. He’s seen it in Loki’s head. Even by the fact that the very colour of his skin, even if not seen on himself, is enough to make him recoil.

Loki’s smile stays implanted on his face but it loses some of its light. His eyes are trained on the ground, following the even cracks of the floorboards. “Maybe so.” Bucky stares for a moment, wondering whether should further the topic but eventually decides against it and changes the course of the conversation. “You should make a board too.”

“There is too much to write,” Loki argues. “I am 1000s of years old. I could not chooses where to begin.”

“And you’ve already said that you’ve lived almost all of it behind a mask. Start afresh. I’ll promise you this: you’ll struggle for points when you start. It’s harder than it looks.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Look, I’ll prove it to you.” Bucky stands suddenly and rummages for a single A4 sheet of paper and gets out his marker. “Write your first point.” Loki looks down at the empty page and suddenly feels overwhelmed by the blankness of it. Where’s he supposed to start? Can he be told a first point?

No. This is his personality. He can’t let another person dictate it.

He chews his lip and uncaps the marker, brining it down to the page, mind still blank. “Um,” he whispers under his breath musingly, pressing the pen down until ink starting to spread from the tip, slowly seeping through the paper. Slowly, but with more surety as he continued, he wrote in his own looping perfect: ‘interested in languages and politics.’ (All with proper grammar and punctuation too). Bucky watches intently as Loki lifts the pen of the page and caps it again. “There. First point made.”

“But out of how many? What about the next point?” It dawns on Loki at the very moment Bucky says it. “See? It’s a long process but I think it’s a start. And languages, interesting. I used to love languages. Always thought French was so exotic; didn’t actually get to learn that much of it, though I heard a lot of it when I was with the Howlies. The only language I learnt under HYDRA was Russian and God does that make me hate it.”

“It’s a beautiful language. It’s letters intrigue me. They’re unique in comparison to the rest of the Earth’s. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen many characters like that across the Nine Realms.”

“Thanks but you don’t have to soften the blow. I don’t like it, beautiful or not.”

“You should learn to love it. Leave what HYDRA did behind.” Bucky sighs, glaring minutely at Loki from the corner of his eyes. “Don’t patronise me. It doesn’t sound right out of your mouth. You know that’s harder than you think.”

“I know but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

Bucky waits a moment and then before Loki can even comprehend what’s going on, he picks up the pen and writes ‘dislikes Russian, can speak Russian, wants to like Russian’ on his board. Loki smiles, warmed by the fact that he’s made an impact, no matter how small. “I have an idea,” he adds, coming up behind Bucky but not taking the pen. “You should write it in Russian underneath.” Bucky huffs a laugh and shrugs. “Fine. Though my writing’s pretty awful. They didn’t need me writing all that often. Just needed me capable of it for emergencies.” Loki wants to push Bucky out of his own melancholy but knows it’s something he needs to do by himself. Nevertheless, Bucky brings up the pen again and starts to write, in angular characters, the same phrase. “There,” he declares when he’s done. The grammar’s not perfect, nor are the characters but they’re distinct enough that a Russian could translate it with only moderate difficulty.

“If you wanted an exotic language, I think you got it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, leaning back, incidentally hitting Loki’s chest, “I guess I did.” He doesn’t move when Loki’s arm automatically winds around him, holding him in place. He just keeps staring at the board, feeling a fast pounding heart on his back and a stable hand on his front. “Bucky,” Loki suddenly breathes, his head on Bucky’s left, almost at his neck. Bucky turns to the voice but finds himself too close. Loki is right there.

He’s right…

He’s there…

He’s…

They both back away at the same time, not mentioning the obvious and try to continue their previous actions in the awkward silence that ensues. It’s not that neither of them _want_ to but it just feels…

It feels-

God, neither of them know how it feels and maybe that’s exactly it. Bucky, even if he’s loved in the past, has not loved now. And, on top of that, he’s certainly never loved a man. And he doesn’t love Loki, not yet. But, that’s it too. _Not yet_. The thought terrifies Bucky. The Winter Soldier does not love, he kills. He can’t-

Loki’s mind goes into overdrive immediately. Loki does not love. He does not love because he taints it. He does not love because he manipulates it. He can’t love Bucky because he can’t do that to him.

(But that’s exactly what love _is_.)

They stare aimlessly at each other, both stuck in their own mind, their own doubts, neither one allowing themselves to take the leap and just _say what they want_. For a man who’s died for his country, Bucky sure is a coward.

Loki’s been a liar his whole life; his cowardice comes as no surprise.

“I have to go,” Loki mumbles, although he would late be sure it came out resolute. “I have to speak to Thor. He’s returned from the UN summit.”

“Yes, of course. Go. You’re the king, go do your duties.” Sometimes Loki forgets he’s king; for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know if he even wants to be. (But he will keep it, if only for prides sake, and maybe the opportunity to stand on equal footing with his brother.)

Loki backs away slowly, before turning and rushing out, relishing in the brash breeze that batters his tortured skin. Fuck, he thinks. _Fuck._ He realises with a start that he left his paper with Bucky; never mind, he’ll collect it later. Surely. When the awkwardness does not threaten to throw him back into madness.

Bucky remains rooted to the spot, staring aimlessly down at the piece of paper lying forgotten on the coffee table. Suddenly, the small walls of his apartment crush him inside, squeezing his lungs and forcing the breath out. It doesn’t come back in quite right. He rushes to the window, opening it with a resounding _shiff_ and sticks his head out. He needs to breath. Fuck, just breathe, just like every other fucking human on this planet.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

He takes in a shuddering breath. He looks down at his trembling hands and realises he’s now clutching at the paper, crushed in his hand. God, he didn’t think this was how his day was going to go. Way to go, Bucky, _way to ruin everything_. He can’t even recall what happened, he thinks his mind might have pushed it out but the more he focuses, the more it comes to light, the more he can’t take the image out of his mind.

It reminds him of when he first escaped HYDRA; he couldn’t quite capture the memories until he just…did, and then they’d never leave.

Blood pooling from splattered brains.

A clean gunshot through the forehead.

Children screaming over their parents corpses.

Blood staining his gun; realising the blood was a child’s.

And suddenly, like the vividness of a torture-dream, he sees it: Loki’s lips just inches away from his, the way he was about to lean in, the _wrongness_ of it all. It squeezes his heart now because whilst he may have once claimed ignorance, now all he could focus on was the knowledge of this. The knowledge that they have feelings, both of them. The knowledge that they can’t act on those feelings. The knowledge that no matter what, no matter who it is, Bucky is not deserving of those feelings.

He left Steve behind to claim his life back without the burden of Bucky on his back.

He will leave Loki behind for Loki to claim his future without the stains of the Winter Soldier on his hands.

Looking down at the crumpled paper in his hands, he lets out a sigh of relief. Maybe once he’s left them behind, he can claim his own life back and pave the way towards his own future. He’s picking at the foundations of his own support system, letting it slowly take him to the ground. From there, he’ll build up the stilts alone; no longer will he need the support of his friends.

All he’ll need is himself.

Bucky’s a lone wolf; he has been _trained_ to be a lone wolf.

Do with that what you will.

*

Loki doesn’t think about it when he knocks on Steve’s door. It only takes five seconds before Steve Rogers is standing in front of him and suddenly Loki’s mouth is dry. For one of the first times in his life, he hasn’t planned what he’s going to say. He’d just come here. Without reason, without hesitance. And now he’s just…here. Here, with Steve Rogers standing in front of him. Steve Rogers who looks rather…

Well, to explain that would be to dive too far into Steve Roger’s head but he can see traces of the emotions that swirl around the surface. Resignation, loneliness, anger. All festering just beneath the skin, waiting to burst out like fire and burn anyone who stands in its way. Loki can see, can see how close he’s coming to his breaking point. Loki, nevertheless, does not leave. He watches Steve Rogers carefully, examining everything from his eyes to his lips to the way he stands. “Loki? Why are you here?” Steve’s eyebrows furrow and his posture is pushed upwards, his back straightened like a rod had been attached to his spine. Still, somehow, he’s managing to exude an aura of nonchalance. His arms are crossed, his body is slightly leaning into the door frame and one foot is stretched out to keep the door open. It’s an act, one that Loki can see through, yet is still entranced by.

“I-“ Loki doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go from there. “I just came to…”

“What do you want?” Steve tries again as Loki fumbles.

“I…I don’t know.” Steve raises a single eyebrow, ostentatiously unimpressed as his arms unfold and hang loosely by his side. “You’re just…here?”

“Yes,” Loki replies resolutely.

“You don’t have a reason?”

“I do not.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” Steve replies bluntly.

“Oh, of course. Of course you don’t trust me. I’m sorry I assumed-“ Loki stops; he’s making a fool out of himself. Of course it was stupid of him to come here. Steve is his enemy, no matter how many conversations they have or how many friends they share. Steve is man who _cannot_ trust him: too much history, too much pain.

“Well,” Steve began, though never finished.

“Yes. I’m sorry, this was silly of me. I will go to Thor now; I will not interrupt your day any further.”

Loki leaves yet again, his heart heavy, wondering when his life suddenly felt so tiresome again.

*

Loki finally makes it to Thor (who actually was back from the UN, with yet another agreement, signed off by the Norwegian government, that placed them as pioneers in the Climate Change Crisis as well as securing them a separate place amongst the many seats that represented their own countries), chastising himself over his own stupidity. How had he ended up as Steve’s door? More importantly, what had he _expected_. Surely not support? Just because his feelings for Bucky have come to light (and will soon be shoved back into darkness) does not mean that _Steve_ can help him any way.

(Loki knows, he _knows_ that Steve can help. That Steve knows what he’s feeling. Even if he’ll never admit to it. Especially not to Loki.)

“Brother! What can I do? Have you finished writing up the agreements?” Whilst Thor has been presenting the ideas, it’s probably no surprise that it is Loki who, for the most part, comes up with them. They have to agree on matters and Thor is careful to read each one as thoroughly as the ‘lawyers’ the humans deem to be so important as to do so for them. But, when it comes to it, Loki’s half of the leadership is just as important, if just more hidden. “Of course, Thor, I will have to you by tomorrow. How are the visas coming along?”

“They are going well, I assure you. If a little slowly. Hiemdall seems far more reluctant to let certain individuals in than I am.”

“That man saw the entire universe in front of him. I think by now he can recognise the worthy from the unworthy.”

“I trust him, yes, and that is why I let him continue but I am afraid that he might be too harsh against them simply because they are human.”

“We live amongst the humans now, I am sure he is just.”

“But he has not _met_ them Loki,” Thor sighs, looking wearily at the ground. “He does not see what remarkable things they are capable of, only their shortcomings. You’ve seen it. You’ve been with Steve and his best friend for long an hour; you have seen how powerful a human can be.”

“I have, brother, but let Heimdall do what he must. As long as he is letting in a fair amount, it does not matter who he turns down. And surely, the influx of people will come at a later date. No one is willing to move so quickly. For now, we can let in a mere few and then, once people see us on the map, then we can worry about unjustness.”

“You are right,” Thor sighs. “As usual,” he adds, a little self-deprecating.

“I am not _always_ right, brother, merely most of the time.” Thor smiles and tries to hide it behind the locks of hair he used to have, leaving it vulnerable to Loki’s gaze. Soon enough, though, Thor lets out a rough sigh and looks up. “So, brother, you would not be here without an agenda, what is it?”

Loki barks a laugh. “I think that might just be the third time I’ve heard that today, more or less. Do not worry, I am not planning anything. I am merely in search of company.” Thor raises his eyebrows, protruding a mix of surprise and wariness before he thins his eyes. “I would be grateful to have you in my company. But, are you sure there is not something you’d rather say first?”

“I know my trust is still not fully earned but trust me on this, I just want company.” Anything to distract him from the ramblings of his own mind. Anything.

And so he finds, a little bit too late, that he _does_ have an ulterior motive. Just, for the first time in centuries, he’s not plotting. He’s merely scared of the vulnerability.

And _that’s_ why he went to Steve. A stoic man. One who not dive deep into Loki’s vulnerabilities, merely take them for what they are. Steve does not psychoanalyse him; he just expects him to be him.

Maybe not for the best.

But, still, Loki loves it.


End file.
